Another Planet's Hell
by Sita Z
Summary: When Archer finds shuttlepod I empty and drifting in space, he assumes that his officers have been killed. However, Trip and Malcolm are not dead. But maybe they wish they were. Chapter 19 UP! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Genre: Angst/ Action/Adventure

Rating: PG 13 (please note that some chapters are rated separately (R) )

Summary: When Archer finds shuttle pod I empty and drifting in space, he assumes that his officers have been killed. However, Trip and Malcolm are not dead. But maybe they wish they were.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Star Trek, I mean. The story, and all original characters belong to me.

AN: First, thanks and hugs to Gabi, the best beta reader ever, for all the feedback, encouragement, and discussions... ganz ganz großes Dankeschön ;-)!!!

Please note that this story deals with violence and mentions sexual abuse (nothing graphic). It also contains some strong language. If this offends you, please do not read any further!

If it doesn't... then please read and review ;-)!

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Maybe this world is another planet's hell. Aldous Huxley

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Chapter 1

"No life signs," T'Pol announced, her voice ringing out clearly in the silent room.

For a moment Archer tore his eyes away from the screen where Shuttle Pod I was drifting aimlessly in space, like an empty cardboard box someone had thrown into a brook.

"What do you mean, no life signs?"

It was a stupid question, and he knew it. At this close distance, the scanners worked with an efficiency of 98.8 percent. Interferences or other disturbances jamming the subspace became irrelevant if the object in question was only a hundred meters away. So when T'Pol said "no life signs", then that was exactly what they were going to get. The Vulcan Subcommander gave him a look, one of those subtle twitches of the eyebrow she saved for these occasions, but the gesture was only a hollow imitation of her usual caustic spark. Her look was supposed to tell him _you are being illogical_, but Archer was able to read the message behind her dry facade. _I am sorry_.

The shuttle on the screen hadn't moved, still floating, hanging in space at a disturbing angle that indicated there was no one left aboard to keep it on course. In fact, Archer had known the second the small craft appeared on the view screen that there were no life signs in there waiting to be picked up by Enterprise's scanners. But one could always hope; hope that T'Pol was going to say "Two life signs, Captain, but they are rather weak" (meaning his men were injured but still alive) or "I'm picking up a distress signal" (the shuttle's systems had been incapacitated by an asteroid hit, leaving Malcolm and Trip no choice but to wait, adrift in space, for Enterprise to come and pick them up).

"Captain?" Travis' voice. The Captain straightened up in his chair, tightening his grip on the soft imitation leather of the arm rests. The material felt strangely cool under his hands.

"Bring the grapplers online," Archer said, wondering in a detached part of his mind if his voice sounded as numb as he felt inside. He watched Ensign Hsan, Malcolm's substitute, move to the left and press a few buttons to activate the grappling device, one of many ingenious innovations Starfleet's engineers had come up with to get their proud new ship ready for her journey into deep space.

Hsan had to try twice before the clamps got hold of the small shuttle. She threw Archer a nervous glance, as if she expected him to rebuke her for her poor aim, but the Captain watched in silence, his eyes never leaving the screen as the shuttle was pulled into the hangar bay. A small green light lit up, indicating that the hangar doors had closed. Archer got up.

"T'Pol," he said, but the Subcommander was already on her feet, following him to the turbolift. Archer looked at Hoshi whose face was very pale, her fingers closed around the edge of her console.

"Tell Dr. Phlox to meet me in shuttle bay two. You have the bridge."

"Aye, sir."

On entering the turbolift, Archer felt himself switch to "Captain mode", a sure sign that this time it was going to be hard. Really hard. Captain mode, a phrase he had coined for himself years ago, meant that Jonathan Archer, the being who ate, slept, cared about his friends and made mistakes, backed away, making room for Jonathan Archer, the Captain. The Captain stayed calm, no matter what circumstances, he was a diplomat, and sometimes he gave orders in the line of duty that Jonathan Archer the man wouldn't approve of. And the Captain was in control of his feelings. That was important. He set an example, he didn't burden his subordinates by indulging in emotional displays, as T'Pol would've put it. Well, mostly he didn't. There were times when Jonathan the person showed through, giving the Captain a hard time, especially when it came to things you had to do _in the line of duty_.

"Gettin' a little schizophrenic here, Cap'n, ain't we?"

Trip's voice echoed in his thoughts as if his friend were right here, commenting on his captain's musings in that exaggerated drawl he always put on when he was teasing someone. Despite himself, Jon felt a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and was only too aware of T'Pol's eyes on him. The Vulcan seemed to be watching him very closely, probably interpreting his muscle twitch as a sign of tension, and Jon knew that right now she was racking her brain for something to say that was logical and comforting at the same time. Unfortunately, though, these two things mostly proved mutually exclusive, and so they stood in silence, waiting for the turbolift to finally come to a halt.

When the doors opened, Jon realized that this time he was going to need the Captain more than ever before. Phlox was already here, waiting next to the shuttlepod which was standing in the very middle of the hangar. Archer noticed the black streaks on its side, proof of past weapon fire. One of the wings was broken, its jagged remains burnt and charred.

Phlox, for once, didn't smile as they approached. His round face was solemn, almost grave, and the look in his eyes told Archer that the doctor was worried. Worried about him. Phlox' next words confirmed his guess.

"Captain, if you don't mind I'd like to go in first. I need to take a few scans, and I don't want the data contaminated by interfering readings."

It was a lame excuse if Archer had ever heard one, but he knew as well as Phlox did that interfering readings had nothing to do with his wish to be the first one to enter the shuttle pod. The first one to go in could prepare the others for the sight awaiting them in there, could clean up the mess, maybe pull a blanket over the face of a charred corpse. He could make things a little easier for those coming after him.

The Captain shook his head. "No, doctor. That'll be okay."

The doctor hesitated, then lowered his head and stepped aside. Archer was very aware of their eyes on his back as he approached the shuttle. Stepping closer, he noticed that the hatch's edges were charred as well, slightly bent and scratched in some places, as if someone had forced their way inside. Very briefly, he hesitated, then reached out and pushed the opening mechanism. A clicking sound confirmed that the hatch was open, but it was stuck, leaving only a small gap between the frame and the bulkhead. Grabbing the handle, Archer gave the hatch a sharp jerk, and it sprang open.

Jon climbed inside, fully expecting to discover Trip and Malcolm lying in some far corner where they'd been hurled during the attack, dead, their necks broken. But there was nothing there. The shuttle was empty.

Jon sat down hard on one of the benches, letting his eyes wander across the shuttle's interior. Only then did he notice that besides the absence of his crewmen, the shuttle was in quite a state of disarray. The compartment doors were open, their contents strewn all over the floor, and there were several dents in the wall paneling, looking as if something - or someone - had been slammed against the wall.

"It seems that a fight has taken place in here." T'Pol's voice came from the direction of the hatch, and Archer turned his head. The Subcommander and Phlox had followed him into shuttle, taking a quick, tense look around just like he had done. The doctor pulled out his hand scanner, and began to run it over the chairs and benches. T'Pol had knelt down, and was now methodically going through the equipment that had been thrown out of the compartments. Pulling himself together, Archer got up again.

"Anything missing, T'Pol?"

She looked up at him, a small crease between her eyebrows. "No, Captain. But..."

She picked up a phaser that had been half hidden under one of the benches, turning it over in her hands. "It looks like this phase pistol has been fired not too long ago."

Archer nodded, his mind coming up with several new scenarios at once. They had used their hand weapons. Meaning that someone _had_ forced their way in here. Meaning that whoever had attacked them had managed to dock at the shuttle. Meaning...

"Captain..."

Both Jon and T'Pol turned their heads. Phlox had come to a halt at the helm console, his scanner still poised for receiving new data, but he wasn't moving it anymore. After staring at the display for another moment, the doctor slowly lowered his hand, and sat down on the floor with a small sigh.

The gesture was so untypical of the Denobulan that Archer was immediately alarmed.

"Doc?" he asked, and when Phlox looked up at him, his eyes were sad.

"Captain..." He glanced down at his scanner. "I can't be entirely sure my readings are correct, but only a short while ago the air in here seems to have contained a huge amount of... vaporized protein. The compound analysis shows that the vaporization took place less than forty-eight hours ago, that's why there are still traces left in the air. Captain... I'm sorry."

For a short moment, Archer stood motionless. Vaporized protein. No mangled bodies, no corpses burnt beyond recognition. Just some vaporized protein. Something you couldn't see, couldn't even smell.

He felt a hand coming to rest on his arm, Phlox' hand, presumably.

"Captain," T'Pol said quietly, and a distant part of his mind was surprised at the fact that she was touching him. Usually, the Vulcan kept a safe distance between herself and her human crewmates. Her quiet voice stirred something within him, and suddenly Jon was able to move again, straightening his shoulders and stepping away from his second-in-command.

"I want a full analysis of the shuttle's interior," the Captain said. "Get some of Malcolm's staff to take a look at these phaser burns. I want to know exactly what happened in here."

"Captain..."

He heard Phlox' voice behind his back, but didn't turn around, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he climbed out the hatch. "You have your orders. Get to work."

He knew he was making a mess of it. He knew that Captain Jonathan Archer was supposed to stay with his officers, was supposed to find words of comfort and encouragement at times like this. Captain Archer wouldn't order his crew to do the dirty work, leaving them with nothing but a tense "You have your orders". But Jon, the man who had lost his two best friends, couldn't act any different.

All the way to his quarters, Jon nodded numbly at the crewpeople he encountered, feeling their worried looks on his back as he walked past them down the corridors.

Vaporized protein. The image of a weapon blast, glaring white and hotter than fire, suddenly appeared in his head, and he sat down on his bunk after the door had closed behind him, ignoring Porthos who timidly crept closer, instinctively sensing that something strange was going on.

Jon closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his hands. In his mind's eye, he could see it happen, the scene unfolding in front of him as though he had witnessed it in person. A weapon was being raised, and a second later there was a scream, lasting only the split of a second before it was literally killed. _Vaporized._

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't erase that scene from his mind. It kept re-playing in his thoughts over and over again, and even hours later, when Jon finally got up, washed his face and went to the bridge to inform his officers that Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed were missing in action and had most likely been killed, he still saw that white blaze, reminding him that his friends were gone. _Dead._

Except that they weren't. Less than one light year away, in the cargo hold of an alien freighter, Commander Charles Tucker opened his eyes, staring at the dark that surrounded him.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi, cordeliablack, Aelan Greenleaf, ally, AquaSox, Lady Conqueror, plumtuckered, highonscifi, WhtevrHpnd2Mary, Parisfan, The Libran Iniquity, Ocean, Tata, KaliedescopeCat, Katt, Laura B, lieutenants-lady, Exploded Pen, Obsessed Librarian and Luna for reviewing! Wow, thanks! Keep it coming, I really enjoy getting your feedback!

On with Chapter 2!

Chapter 2

It was the smell that had woken him up; a pungent odor with traces of sweat, urine and some kind of disinfectant, triggering a faint feeling of nausea in his stomach before he had even opened his eyes. The smell, and the sound of someone crying nearby. At first, Trip didn't even recognize the dry gasps as sobs; the noise reminded him of an asthmatic desperately trying to draw in air, and only when the crying person let out a small whimper did he realize what it was.

For a few seconds Trip lay completely still, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Judging from the way the crying echoed, they seemed to be in a rather large room, more like a hall. The floor - or rather deck - he was lying on was hard, though not hard enough to be made of metal. No, judging by the smell and consistency it was some kind of rubberized floor covering, and for some reason it felt rather greasy under his fingers. Carefully, Trip turned onto his back. The movement made his head spin and caused a sharp pain behind his forehead, bringing tears to his eyes. He waited for the dizziness to pass, listening to the quiet sobs that were slowly dying away. After a while, his eyes got used to the darkness, and Trip realized that he and the crying person were not the only people in this dark, smelly room. Stretched out all over the floor, there were dozens of people, looking in the semi-darkness like so many rag dolls a careless child had thrown away. Most of them seemed to be sleeping or unconscious, lying motionless except for the occasional stir or low groan.

Trip closed his eyes again, incoherent images flashing through his mind like impressions of a movie that lacked not only a plot but also a connection between the different scenes.

Malcolm, sitting in the pilot chair, recalibrating the scanners and dryly reciting the punch line of a joke Trip had first heard when he'd still been in junior high

Both of them bent over a small display, frowning down at the strange metallurgic compounds the scanners had detected in the asteroids

A food container with a half-eaten dish of pasta dropping to the deck as the small shuttle shook and lurched, tomato sauce spattering all over his boots

Malcolm, phase pistol in hand, backing away against the wall

The hatch opening-

Then nothing.

Trip opened his eyes again. Malcolm. It was only logical that whoever had captured him and taken him to this dark place had taken Malcolm as well. More careful this time, Trip turned his head to one side. Less than an arm's length away, there was a prone figure stretched out on the deck, its face turned away from Trip. Squinting, Trip was able to make out some dark strands of hair and let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Malcolm," he whispered, reaching out and touching a bare shoulder. Only then did he notice that his own uniform was missing as well, and that, like the Lieutenant, he was clad only in his Starfleet issue shorts and undershirt. "Malcolm," he repeated and tightened his grip on Reed's shoulder. "Wake up."

"It's no use," a hoarse voice said right next to him, causing him to jump and let go of Malcolm at the same time. "They only ever wake up on their own. S'no use trying to wake him."

Trip turned his head in the direction from where the voice had come, but right then another wave of dizziness swept over him, and all he saw were dark, blurred shapes.

"I said it's no use, pinkskin," the stranger repeated. "He'll wake up by himself, eventually. S'no use trying to wake him."

"Who are you?" By now, Trip was able to make out the face of the man next to him on the floor. In the semidarkness his skin seemed to be a dark shade of gray, but the feathery antennae protruding from between his light hair told Trip that its actual color was blue. The man was an Andorian.

"I said it's no use trying to wake him up," he repeated, ignoring Trip's question. "Let him sleep."

The Andorian propped himself up on his left elbow, and Trip could see that he, too, was wearing only shorts and the worn remains of what might have been a shirt one day. His long face was thin with prominent cheekbones, and his ribs stood out so that even in the dark every single one of them was clearly visible under the skin.

"Who are you?" Trip asked again. The man, however, only stared at him, and suddenly pulled his lips back, revealing two rows of dark teeth. A moment later Trip realized that he was smiling.

"I've never seen a pinkskin before,"the Andoriansaid in his husky voice. "Heard of you, sure, but I've never actually seen one before."

It wasn't exactly an invitation to introduce himself, but Trip decided to try, anyway. "I'm Charles Tucker, and his name's Malcolm Reed. We're from the starship Enterprise. What is this place?"

The Andorian's smile grew even wider which gave his face a strangely skull-like appearance. "It's a wonderful place," he said slowly, never taking his eyes off Trip's face. "Don't you think so, pinkskin? Wonderful place."

Trip answered his stare, not sure whether to try again or end his conversation with this guy before things got any worse, when a movement further to the right caught his attention. The person next to the Andorian was stirring, pushing herself up on her elbows. For a moment Trip got a glance of her face, and saw that her skin was wrinkled, her mouth a thin, hard line before she opened it to speak.

"Leave him alone, Kalem," she hissed, and suddenly raised a bony hand, giving the Andorian a hard push. "Go and play your fucking games with someone else, you hear me? I'm fed up with listening to your shit all the time."

Kalem, whose grin had vanished the second she had started to speak, whimpered faintly, not even raising a hand when the woman pushed him again. "I didn't do anything," he wheezed. "Really, I didn't do anything..."

"Then get your fucking ass out of here!"

She gave him another hard shove. The Andorian, his eyes bright with tears, awkwardly got to his hands and knees, crawling away from Trip and the woman. His movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, as if he were wading through a thick, viscous substance. A few meters away he found an empty space between two of the sleepers and curled up on the floor, burying his face in the crook of his arm.

"He's fucking mad."

Trip looked at the woman who was still staring in Kalem's direction. She had moved into the space the Andorian had abandoned, and now Trip could see the sharp, bony ridges that protruded from either side of her face. Even though he had no idea what species she was, it was clear that she was old. Her gray hair was pulled back in an untidy braid, and she was as thin as the Andorian, her baggy gown hanging loosely off her bony frame.

"He's mad," she repeated. "He'll go on and on about all kind of shit if you don't stop him. It's not his fault," she added suddenly, looking back at Trip as if she expected him to contradict.

"I... I guess not," Trip said, since she seemed to wait for an answer. He bit his lip. The nausea had returned, rising from his stomach into his throat, and part of him wanted to lie back down on the floor, close his eyes and hope that sleep was going to take him away from this dark, filthy place with its mad inhabitants. Swallowing hard, he fought down the bile that was threatening to come up, and tried again.

"What is this place?"

The woman sighed, running her hand through her hair and smoothing away a few stray strands which immediately fell back into her face.

"A cargo hold," she said, her hooded eyes coming to rest on him. "This is a slave ship, kid."

Trip pushed himself into a sitting position - a mistake, for the dizziness rushed straight to his head, and he would have lost his balance if the woman hadn't grabbed his arm.

"Take it easy, kid. You're going nowhere, at least not yet."

"How... how did we come to be here?" he whispered, and the woman let out another sigh.

"I have no idea. Either they bought you from other slave traders, or you were lucky enough to run across their ship somewhere out there. Don't you remember?"

Trip shook his head. "I only remember our shuttle bein' attacked..."

"They drugged you. It makes you forget things. The memories'll come back to you soon enough." The woman's mouth hardened. "They attack every smaller ship they come across, kill half the crew and sell the other half." She let out a short, humorless laugh. "And I don't know who is better off."

"Who are they?"

"Sar'veen." She said the word very quietly. "That's what they call themselves. This ship is headed for their homeworld, K'tera. That's where we're going to be sold."

"We have to get out of here." The words were out of his mouth before he even knew what he was going to say. They had to get out of here. _He_ had to get them out of here.

The old woman laughed again. "Oh, you will, don't worry. Only another week or so and we're there. Then you'll get out of here, kid."

Trip suddenly felt an irrational burst of anger, mixed with growing panic. "I'm not plannin' on stayin' that long," he snapped, and started to get to his feet. At least he tried to do so. All of a sudden, the nausea lurking at the bottom of his throat returned, together with the worst dizzy spell he had experienced so far. Trip dropped to his knees, his fingers digging into the deck as he retched dryly. His stomach was empty, though, and only a few drops of spit came out, falling onto the floor in front of him. A hand came to rest on his back, and Trip heard the woman's voice next to his ear.

"It's the drugs, kid. They make you feel that way if you move too much. Lie back down, and the feeling will pass. Come on, it's okay."

Somehow, the combination of her voice and her hand on his back had a soothing effect, and Trip complied, lowering himself back onto the greasy floor.

"It's okay," the woman repeated, giving his shoulder a gentle pat before she pulled her hand back. "You're doing great, kid. I'm Lu'Vis, by the way."

Trip looked up at her, and saw that the sharp lines around her mouth had softened somewhat, making her look less old and a lot more vulnerable. Again, he noticed the ridges on her face, and it reminded him of something.

"How come we can understand each other?" he asked when he trusted himself to speak again. "I mean, we're from different species, and-"

"Subdermal translators," Lu'Vis said matter-of-factly. "All newcomers are given one of those. The Sar'veen have no use for slaves who don't understand them."

Trip ran a hand across his arm, half-expecting to come across a small wound where the device had been implanted into his skin. Lu'Vis had followed his eyes.

"They inject it into your back, kid," she said. "That way you can't cut it out again."

He stared at her, and suddenly she smiled, a sad expression belying her hard features.

"It's different where you come from, isn't it?"

"Yes," Trip said quietly, not sure why he was telling this woman about it. "Malcolm and me, we're servin' on a starship, the Enterprise. We're on a mission of peaceful exploration."

Said aloud in the cramped cargo hold of an alien slave ship, the familiar phrase sounded empty, even ridiculous, but Lu'Vis didn't laugh.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"We're from a planet called Earth. The Enterprise is the first ship our people have built that ever went out into deep space." Even now, he felt a sudden surge of pride. "Our first warp-five vessel."

Lu'Vis smiled again, very faintly. "I have no idea how fast the ship I was on could go. I hardly ever left the kitchen, and I don't know a thing about engines and technology."

"How did you come to be here?" Trip asked. Her smile vanished, and he saw a hurt expression cross her features before she was able to cover it up.

"He sold us. The captain, I mean. He was running cargo, but one day a friend of his offered him a large sum if he transported some contraband to the outer fringes. He agreed, and his friend said he had to get rid of the people serving aboard. We'd cause too much trouble. Well, and that's exactly what he did."

"I'm sorry," Trip said, but she dismissed it with a shrug.

"Who cares? All I ever did on that ship was scrubbing pots and cooking the same meal every single day. It's not like I left that much behind. And even if I did, it doesn't matter. In a few days, I'll be dead anyway, so why complain."

There was something terrible about the way she said it, as if she were simply stating a fact.

"Why do you think you'll be dead?"

Lu'Vis let out a short, almost angry laugh. "Come on, kid. Look at me. I'm old, I look like shit, and after all those weeks down here I'm not in the condition to do any hard work. Do you really think anyone's going to buy me? And the traders are certainly not going to put up with the likes of me when they leave for their next tour."

She misinterpreted his silence, and continued, "Don't worry, kid, you and your buddy, you're going to do just fine. Just try to smile and be polite, and you'll be okay."

I'd rather they kill me was the first thing that came to his mind, but then he realized what a stupid thing to say that would be.

"We're not stayin' here," he said instead. "At least not for long. The people back on Enterprise'll move heaven and earth to find us. They'll be comin' for us any time."

"They won't," Lu'Vis said at once. "You said they attacked your shuttle?"

Trip nodded mutely.

"Well, the Sar'veen have a nasty little trick of making it look like you were killed. I don't know how they do it, something about a faked substance, I think. I don't know much about these kind of things. Fact is, your people are going to find the shuttle and believe you are dead. No one ever gets out of here again, kid. I'm sorry. And it's either deal with it and move on, or..."

She looked over at the Andorian who was still curled up in the same position on the floor, face hidden in the bend of his arm.

"They'd captured his whole family," she said quietly. "And they sold them, one by one, to other slave ships. He had to watch as they took his kids away. They were crying..."

She looked down at her hands. "A week ago they sold his wife. That was when he snapped. He just lost it. Started talking shit and refused to eat. Not for long, of course."

She raised her head. "There are others like him. And believe me, kid, you don't want to become like them. That's something you don't want to do. So better stop waiting for your people to come and get you. Just concentrate on surviving as long as you can. That's all we can do."

Trip stared at her, meeting her dark, weary eyes. Then he shook his head.

"No. They'll find out about the trick. The Cap'n would never leave us behind."

Lu'Vis regarded him for a long moment, her eyes sad and at the same time strangely expressionless, as if she were long past feeling any real emotions.

"Go to sleep, kid," she said then, lying back down on the floor and turning away from him. Trip stared at her thin back for another moment, then lay back down himself. The nausea was gone, and all he felt was a dull throbbing behind his forehead. Looking over at Malcolm, he saw that the Lieutenant was still unconscious, and suddenly found himself wishing he could go to sleep and wake up all over again, finding that he was back on his bench in the shuttle pod. It would take a few moments for him to realize where he was, but then he'd sit up, shake off the remains of the nightmare and swear to himself to lay off the heavy food before going to sleep. Malcolm would tease him about looking like hell, and he'd retort by saying that the only thing worse than a week of being stuck in a shuttlepod with an obnoxious Brit was being stuck in there for two weeks. And they'd have a nice, pointless discussion as to who was stuck in here with whom.

Better stop waiting for your people to come and get you.

Trip shook his head, even though there was no one here to acknowledge his refusal. He didn't even really know what exactly it was he was refusing. But he knew they were going to get out of here. They had to.

XXX

"Trip!"

Malcolm's voice. Trip opened his eyes and for a brief moment thought they were back in the shuttle pod. His surroundings were no longer dark, but lit by a bright artificial light that hurt his eyes, and there was Malcolm looking down at him, his forehead creased in a worried expression. Then he noticed that Malcolm was still not wearing his uniform.

"You're awake," the Lieutenant stated, clearly relieved. "Are you okay?"

"Was gonna ask you the same thing," Trip said and carefully pushed himself into a sitting position, glad to get as far away from the stinking floor as possible. To his surprise, the strong dizziness he had experienced earlier did not return. He looked back at Malcolm.

"What's goin' on?"

"I don't know." Trip noticed that the Lieutenant was rather pale, pressing his lips together as he took a quick look around. "The lights went on a few minutes ago."

All over the room - and it was indeed a very large room, twenty by ten meters at least - people were slowly sitting up, blinking in the harsh light of the ceiling lamps. Trip saw that most of them looked rather ill, their cheeks hollow and their eyes swollen and bleak. The greater part of the species represented in here he didn't even recognize, except for a few Tellarites and a Denobulan couple. The woman's head was resting against the man's chest, and she seemed too weak to sit up on her own. Kalem the Andorian was still curled up on the floor in the middle of the room, not moving even as his neighbors roughly jostled him while pushing themselves up.

"Hey kid," a voice said next to his ear, and he turned his head to see Lu'Vis, actually smiling at him. In the light of the lamps she looked even older, and Trip noticed that there was a thin scar running down the side of her face, a white line on her light brown skin.

"See?" she continued, this time in Malcolm's direction. "I told you he was going to wake up in no time."

Malcolm only nodded, and Trip realized that the Lieutenant must have been awake for quite some time.

"What's goin' on?" he asked again, and she looked back at him.

"It's morning. They'll be bringing us our rations soon. We're fed twice a day, mostly."

"Commander." Malcolm's tense, clipped tone brought his attention back to the Lieutenant. Malcolm continued in a low voice, leaning forward as if to avoid anyone overhearing their conversation. "This woman - Lu'Vis - told me we've been injected with some kind of device. A - a translator."

"Yes, I know," Trip said. "She told me so last night."

It was clear that Malcolm hadn't heard a word he'd said. "Who knows what other bloody devices we've been injected with," he said, his voice rising slightly. "Who knows what they did to us while we were unconscious. We have to-"

"Malcolm!" Trip laid a hand on the Lieutenant's arm. He recognized the panicky look in Malcolm's eyes; he'd felt the same last night before he had tried to get up, only to end up retching and heaving on the dirty floor. "Calm down, will ya? It's okay."

Malcolm opened his mouth to give an angry reply, but then he shut it again, closed his eyes and swallowed. When he looked back at Trip, the panic in his eyes had ebbed away, leaving only confusion and slight embarrassment in its wake.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to-"

"That's okay." Trip said. "I kinda lost it last night, too."

Malcolm sighed, running a hand through his untidy hair. "Commander, I-"

He was interrupted by the sound of a door opening at the far end of the room. The people next to it hastily retreated to the walls, making way for the two men who had entered. Both of them were tall, at least two meters in height, and of athletic build, wearing identical dark green uniforms and helmets. Their skin was gray but of a very light shade, almost white, which gave them a slightly corpse-like appearance.

Trip noticed that all the people on the floor had fallen silent, their eyes fixed warily on the two uniformed men who were slowly making their way into the room, almost sauntering along the rows of cowering figures. They came to a halt in front of a black-haired man whose species Trip did not recognize.

"You," the taller one of the guards said in a rather bored tone of voice. "Get up."

Awkwardly, the man got to his feet, receiving a blow between the shoulderblades when he stumbled.

"Hand these out," the guard said, thrusting a large bag at the man. "And hurry up, will you? We haven't got all day."

"Yes, sir," the man mumbled. He swayed slightly, and had trouble keeping his balance as he began to hand out small brown ration bars. Most of the people started to chew on their rations the second they'd gotten hold of them, gulping down the food as if they were starving. Which, Trip thought, they probably were.

The guards were looking around the room, their expressions bored. Most people avoided their eyes, lowering their gaze when the guards looked their way, but some of them stared back, and Trip saw the hate in their eyes when they looked at the two gray-skinned men.

"I don't understand why they keep pissing on the floor," the smaller guard said, throwing a disgusted glance at a dark puddle in one corner of the room. "I mean, we got them buckets and everything, it's not like they _have_ to piss on the floor. And it stinks like hell in here. Sometimes I think they're doing it out of sheer cussedness."

The other guard was not listening, however. His eyes had come to rest on the Denobulan couple, and he began walking towards them, kicking the people who didn't get out of his way quickly enough.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked. The Denobulan man had gone very pale.

"Nothing, sir," he said, bravely meeting the guard's eyes. "She's just tired is all."

"She's not eating," the guard stated, nudging the woman with his foot. She didn't react in any way, not even opening her eyes. "And I believe she wasn't eating yesterday, either."

"She - she ate half a ration bar in the evening, sir." The man wrapped a protective arm around the woman. "She didn't sleep very well, and-"

"Don't give me that bullshit!" The guard's voice grew louder, and Trip saw the man's fingers beginning to tremble. "Didn't sleep well my ass. That bitch is long past eating anything. She's dying."

"She's not!"

Suddenly, the room went very still. Even the man handing out the ration bars stopped in his tracks, staring at the Denobulan who was still holding the woman in a tight embrace, his cheeks flushed as he stared up at the guard.

"And don't you call her a bitch! If it wasn't for your people she wouldn't be in this condition in the first place!"

The guard was silent for a few awful seconds, then he raised his hand and brought his club down hard on the side of the Denobulan's head.

"Watch your mouth, will you! One more word, and I'll kill that bitch right here and now!"

In the meantime, the other guard had come to his help, grabbing the woman's arm and giving it a hard jerk. The Denobulan, however, wouldn't let her go, clinging to the woman despite the kicks and blows coming down on him.

"Don't!" he screamed. "Don't take her away! Please! Please don't take her away!"

Without realizing what he was doing, Trip began to get his feet, but then a small hand grabbed his arm, pulling him back down.

"Don't be an idiot!" Lu'Vis hissed. "You can't help him. You'll only make it worse!"

Malcolm, who had also made as if to get up, opened his mouth, but Lu'Vis cut him off. "Quiet!"

In the meantime the guards had managed to pull the Denobulan woman from the man's embrace. The smaller guard had slung her carelessly over his shoulder and watched as his colleague continued to beat up the Denobulan who was curled up on the floor, holding up his hands to protect himself from the blows. With a final kick into the man's stomach, the guard stepped back.

"I think he's had enough. Come on, let's go."

Carrying the unconscious woman like a bag of garbage, the smaller guard followed his colleague to the door. Neither of them looked back at the Denobulan who lay bleeding and sobbing on the floor behind them.

The bulkhead slid shut, and for a moment the silence continued. Then the people began to move again, shifting on the floor and returning their attention back to their rations.

Trip stared at the Denobulan man who was still crying, hiding his face in his arms. "He's injured," he said. "Someone's gotta help him!"

Lu'Vis stopped chewing on her ration bar. "And what do you want to do?" she asked.

"Well, we can't just leave him lying there," Malcolm said, though everybody else in the room seemed to be doing just that. "We could talk to him-"

"What are you going to say?" Lu'Vis asked, regarding Malcolm with her dark eyes. "They're going to kill her, and he knows it. So what is there to say?"

Trip looked down at the small brown bar in his hand, and knew that right now he wouldn't be able to eat anything. He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and tried to block out the desperate sobs of the Denobulan husband. And he stayed that way for a long time.

Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Reedie, Gabi, ally, Tata, lieutenants-lady, Luna, WhtevrHpnd2Mary, rebekah78, The Libran Iniquity, vanishingp2000, Laura B, stage manager and CordeliaBlack for reviewing!

Here's the next chapter... please read and review!

Chapter 3

Trip soon lost count of the days that had passed since he'd first woken up on the floor of the cargo hold. It was surprisingly easy to lose all sense of time, to forget counting how often the lights had been turned on and off again, how often the guards had entered the room with another bag of rations. Part of him knew it was dangerous to do so, that it meant the point when you stopped living and started to simply exist was drawing close. Another part of him, however, the part that was slowly taking over control, told him that it didn't matter.

At some point you stopped talking to each other. It was easier that way. There was only so much energy you had left to spend assuring each other that it was going to be okay, that you were going to get out of here. And there was only so much energy you had left to believe what you were saying. It was easier to lie still with your eyes closed for hours at a time, succumbing to that strange weariness that seemed to fill every corner of the room, crept into your arms and legs and slowed down your thoughts until you moved like someone in a dream. In the beginning, Trip had still been awake enough to notice that the worst sleepiness always came after the guards had brought them their rations, but in the meantime all thoughts of drugged food had lost their meaning. He hardly found enough energy to walk over to the sink at the other end of the room, or to get up when he had to relieve himself. At first, he and Malcolm had still tried to wash on a more or less regular basis, earning odd looks as they scrubbed their faces with the water that the others only ever used for drinking. No one commented on their strange habit (of course not; no one here ever commented on anything), and after a while Trip stopped caring whether he was a little less filthy than everyone else or not. Malcolm, the same man who had shaved only so his frozen corpse would be properly groomed when found by Starfleet personnel, was now smelling like he hadn't had a shower in over a week - which, in fact, he hadn't - but Trip had stopped noticing these things. Everyone smelled like that, and the time when it had been just another part of his everyday life to comb his hair and brush his teeth seemed years ago.

Lu'Vis had told them that the first weeks were the worst, and that after a while you got used to whatever it was the ration bars contained. After a while, she said, your body adjusted to the drugs and the weary feeling began to subside. Trip had noticed that some people seemed to be less affected than he and Malcolm, but still, none of them ever went to the trouble of washing, some of them not even bothering to use the bucket.

This made the guards very angry. Almost every time they entered the room, they began to swear at the smell, some covering their mouth and nose with their hands when they came in to bring the rations. At one time, they had ordered everybody to stand together in one corner of the room and had picked three people to hose down the floor with some sharp-smelling disinfectant. After that, the smell had been a little better for a day or so, but the dazed, semiconscious people still neglected to get up in order to relieve themselves, and soon the stench was as bad as it had been before.

You got used to a lot. Trip got used to sleeping the greater part of the day, to the constant, painful tugging in his empty stomach and even to the fact that he had stopped thinking about a way to get out of here. Every time he tried to do so, his head began to hurt, and his weary mind refused to focus on any coherent thoughts.

At one point, however, shortly after the guards had decided to have the cargo hold mopped, Trip realized that there was at least one thing he could not - and would never - get used to. And it was enough to shake him out of his drugged trance for good.

This time, the guards had picked Malcolm to hand out the food, and Trip watched as his friend slowly made his way around the room, from time to time swaying slightly when he bent down to give someone their ration bar. Trip already had his, but he kept his fingers closed around it, feeling he had to wait for Malcolm before he started to eat. He knew it was silly; the Lieutenant probably wouldn't even notice if he started without him, but Trip still felt he had to maintain at least this small part of basic human decency.

"Don't like the food?"

Trip started when he realized that the question was addressed to him. He looked up at the gray face of the guard who had come to stand right in front of him, and saw that it was the same guy who had beaten up the Denobulan more than a week ago. Surprisingly, though, the question hadn't come as a threat, and there was an actual smile playing about the man's lips. It was not a friendly expression, however.

"Well, I can see why you would hate that stuff," the guard continued in an almost conspiratorial tone. "Tastes like shit, doesn't it?"

Trip had no idea what the man was playing at, and decided that it was probably the safest choice to give no answer at all. The guard's smile grew broader, and he stepped closer, leaning forward as if to avoid being overheard.

"You don't talk much, do you? Well, never mind. You know, I'd like to see to it that you get a decent meal once in a while. The crew's rations are a lot better than the stuff you're given. Just come with me, and I'll make sure they save some for you."

Trip stared at him, knowing that this man couldn't care less whether he or anyone else in this room were starving, or hated the grub they were forced to eat. He'd seen the guards do this before, take people with them when they left the room, and some of those men or women even went willingly. Going with the guards meant not sleeping on the floor, for a change, and getting enough to eat to escape the hunger pangs for a day or two. Trip was aware of that, and at the same time knew that he would rather starve to death than agree to go with one of those bastards.

He shook his head. "Go to hell."

He expected the guard to hit him, but the man pretended not to have heard and crouched down in front of him, the faked smile still on his face.

"Come on, don't be stupid. You look like you could use a little extra food."

And he put a hand on Trip's leg.

"Keep your fuckin' hands off me!" Trip didn't know where he'd gotten the strength from, but suddenly he was on his feet, shaking with fury, and if it hadn't been for the strong dizzy spell washing over him, he'd have taken a swing at the man. Somewhere at the back of his mind he knew that in his current condition he wouldn't be able to fight off a man his own height, let alone one larger than him, but he was willing to die trying. A second later pain exploded on the side of his head, and he fell to his knees while the guard continued to beat him.

"How dare you, you little shit!"

The club came down hard on the back of his head, and for a moment the world went black, the angry yelling seeming to come from far away.

Another voice joined in, barking a short, angry order, and suddenly Malcolm was at his side, grabbing his arms to keep him from losing his balance.

"Trip!"

Trip opened his mouth to tell Malcolm that it was okay, but no sound came out. He felt his blood pounding in his ears, and there was a numb spot at the back of his head, spreading at a rapid speed. Something wet trickled down the back of his neck; blood, Trip realized after a second. His head was bleeding.

"You idiot!" the second voice hissed. It belonged to the other guard, one of the few women on the team. "See what you did? You're lucky if he doesn't have a concussion! The Captain said we can have fun _as long as we don't do any damage to the merchandise_!"

"Keep your shirt on, will you?" her colleague said, but he didn't raise his club again. "He has to learn to keep that big mouth of his shut, and someone's got to teach him, right?" He grabbed a handful of Trip's hair, and the engineer winced when his head was roughly pushed to one side. "See? He's okay. It's just a cut."

"Leave him alone!"

Trip wanted to tell Malcolm to keep quiet, for God's sake, but then the male guard had already delivered a hard kick into Reed's stomach.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut, will you?"

Malcolm was bent double on the floor, and Trip cursed his dizziness that stopped him from coming to his friend's aid. The female guard was shouting, now clearly furious.

"Will you stop it already? Do you know what the Captain is going to do to us if they're all bruised and injured when the sale begins?"

"I don't care! I'm not going to let a couple of dirty aliens tell me what to do!"

The woman sneered at him. "You're just mad because he wouldn't come with you! And to be quite honest, I can see his point!"

The guard, his face dark with anger, stared at her for a few seconds, his chest heaving. Then he turned away, gave Malcolm another kick in the side and grabbed Trip's arm.

"Fuck you. I don't have to put up with this shit. I'm going to have them whipped, both of them. But first I'm going to take that one back to the crew's quarters."

"You're not going to do any such thing." Roughly, the female guard freed Trip's arm from the man's grip and pushed him back down onto the floor. "Go and get the doctor so he can patch him up again. And if you give me any trouble, I'm going to tell the Captain that you're ruining the cargo. He's going to have your head, we lost too many of them already."

The guard gave her another hate-filled look, then turned around and walked off towards the door. The woman glanced down at Trip. "Press something on that wound, then it'll stop bleeding. The doc will be here in a minute."

Trip nodded, and she left, following the other guard to the door. Lu'Vis, who'd been watching from her place next to the wall, came over as soon as the bulkhead had shut and helped Malcolm sit up again. She didn't say a word, silently pulling a rag from her pocket, folding it up and holding it against the still-bleeding wound. Trip winced, and reached up to take the rag from her hand.

"Thanks."

The worst of the pain had subsided, but his vision still blurred when he turned his head to look at Malcolm.

"You okay?"

The Lieutenant nodded, rather pale in the face. "I'm fine."

Still not talking, Lu'Vis handed Trip another piece of fabric to replace the first one that was already soaked with blood. When she finally did open her mouth, her voice sounded sad.

"Why didn't you just go with him, kid?" she asked. "You would've saved yourself and your friend a lot of trouble."

Trip could only stare at her.

The doctor, an elderly Sar'veen who tried in vain to hide his disgust when he cleaned the wound, only took a brief look at the beginning swelling on Malcolm's abdomen and told the guard that it was going to take at least three or four days for the bruise to start fading. She sighed angrily at that, muttering that she was going to lose her job if that idiot kept screwing up. To Trip's relief, the other guard had not returned. He sat quietly while the doctor applied a band-aid to the cut, and didn't say a word when the guard and the doctor started a discussion as to whether the wound could be covered up with his hair so the buyers wouldn't notice. It was humiliating, but he didn't have the energy left to protest and maybe get hit again.

That night, neither Malcolm nor Trip slept much. The Lieutenant was sick twice - clearly he wasn't as "fine" as he had claimed to be - and Trip helped him as much as he could, supporting him as he stumbled over to the bucket, and helping him to the sink afterwards to get a drink of water. The rest of the time they mostly lay in silence, staring into the dark. Neither of them mentioned the incident with the guard, but Trip found his thoughts returning to what would have happened if the female guard hadn't intervened. What frightened him most was that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

From that day on, Trip only ever ate half of his ration, hiding the other half and dropping it into the toilet bucket afterwards (he would have given it away, but he couldn't risk anyone telling the guards). The hunger pain was all but unbearable, but he noticed that his weariness was subsiding, allowing him to think clearly again. And he needed to think clearly and stay awake to be able to protect himself and Malcolm. He wasn't going to let _this_ happen to either of them. Not if he could prevent it.

TBC... (that was a rather short chapter, I know, but the next one'll be longer, I promise!)

Please let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: R

AN: Thanks to Gabi, ally, klitty, The Libran Iniquity, Pike2, WhtEvrHpnd2Mary, Luna, Tata, rebekah78, Quickbeam1, Rinne, highonscifi, The Flaming Dragonfly, KaliedescopeCat, CordeliaBlack, T'eyla, Maraschino, AquaSox and stage manager for reviewing!

Wow, thank you all so much! I love your feedback, keep it coming!

BTW, I kind of agree with what some of you said about the use of profanity, although I think that in a cruel environment people will naturally use "strong language", and not think much about it. Still, I'm sorry if anyone felt offended. There will be (a little -g-) less swearing in the chapters to come.

And now... on with Chapter 4! Please read and review!

Chapter 4

Three days later the ship reached its destination. They were rudely awakened only an hour after the lights had been turned off for the ship's night, the guards shouting at them to get up, kicking and pushing those who were too slow. Tired and disoriented, they stood and watched as more guards came in, carrying the hoses they had used to clean the floor. The guard in charge of the operation ordered the prisoners to strip, then made them stand in the middle of the room so the other guards could hose them down. It was clear that the guards considered this the "fun part", laughing and making rude comments when the naked, shivering people tried to escape the icy water beating down on them. The disinfectant mixed into the water stung, and burned like fire when it made contact with open cuts or sore parts of the skin.

His arms wrapped around his upper body to keep himself from shivering uncontrollably, Trip stood next to Malcolm and tried to ignore the sharp pain that was throbbing at the back of his head. The water had soaked the band-aid the Sar'veen doctor had applied to the cut, and it felt like someone was thrusting a red-hot spike into his head.

Trip saw Malcolm wince when one of the hoses was played directly on his stomach, and felt a surge of helpless anger at the guard who just grinned and moved the hose to the next person in line. Despite the Sar'veen doctor's prognosis, the bruise on Malcolm's abdomen had not started to fade, and Trip suspected that it hadn't even reached its full size yet. Malcolm, of course, never complained, and didn't even bother to give an answer most of the times when Trip asked him if he was in pain. The Lieutenant hardly ever said more than "yes" or "no" these days.

About ten minutes later the guards were finished, leaving their victims dripping wet and shaking with cold. Trip saw the guard who had beaten him take special pleasure in splashing the water into people's eyes before he shut off the hose, and was relieved that the man hadn't come anywhere near him during the cleaning procedure. The guard in charge - the Sar'veen woman who had stopped her colleague from taking Trip away - shouted at her subordinates to quit fooling around, they didn't have all day, after all. After the men had been given a depilatory agent to remove their beards with, the guards started to hand out "towels", a few dirty rags that were soon soaking wet, and made everyone stand in line again, using their clubs to push the people who were still busy trying to towel themselves down. Then the female guard, the doctor and another man Trip had never seen before began inspecting their merchandise.

Some of the people were given only a brief look-over and a nod, whereas others were examined more thoroughly, especially those who had any visible injuries. Instead of treating those wounds, however, the doctor covered them with a superficial layer of dermaplast which Trip suspected would wear off in no more than a day, maybe two.

When it was his turn, the doctor took a quick look at the cut on his head and removed the band-aid, smoothing down the hair next to the wound. It hurt, but Trip grit his teeth and forced himself not to make a sound.

"See?" the doctor said to the guard and the man next to her. "I told you, it's hardly visible. I'm sure no one will notice."

"You'd better be right," the man said, frowning slightly. "That one's worth quite a sum, and I'd hate to sell him for any less just because my crew is doing such a lousy job!"

This last remark was clearly directed to the guard who swallowed, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "Yes, sir, Captain."

"Good." The captain moved on to Malcolm, and his frown deepened as he saw the large, bluish-green bruise on Reed's stomach. "What's that?"

"It was Kher'van, sir." The guard took a deep breath. "I'd like to have him transferred, Captain. He's trouble, picking fights with his bunkmates and knocking around the slaves. He-"

"Listen, I don't care who did this!" the captain cut her off. "I said the crew can do as they please as long as they don't damage the merchandise. And I'm holding you responsible. So see to it that this doesn't happen again!"

"Yes, sir." The lines around her mouth had hardened, but Trip saw that she didn't dare to say anything else.

"Doc?" the captain asked and the doctor stepped forward, examining the bruise.

"Well, I can always try."

Roughly, he ran the dermal spreader over the discolored spot, and Malcolm took in a sharp breath. When the doctor was finished, the bruise was covered with several layers of dermaplast and looked as if it were already fading. Trip saw that Malcolm had closed his eyes, and knew that it wasn't only the pain that made him feel that way. Both he and Malcolm had suffered worse pain than that, but to be treated like that, like a _thing_ without thoughts or feelings, was worse than any physical discomfort.

The captain had moved further down the line, not without a last annoyed glance at the bruise on Malcolm's stomach.

"You okay?" Trip asked quietly. He tried not to move his lips, but the guard saw him.

"Shut up, you!" she said, raising her club. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

She didn't hit him, though, and with a final glare followed the doctor and her captain. Malcolm, of course, did not give an answer, staring straight ahead as if none of this really concerned him.

Trip was beginning to get worried about the Lieutenant. Reed's eyes had a bleak, detached look to them, and he had withdrawn completely into himself, speaking only when spoken to and sometimes not even then. These last few days, Malcolm had been like an automaton, eating, drinking and walking as if it were someone else doing these things and he, Malcolm Reed, only a passive spectator. Trip knew it wasn't the physical violence - in the past, Malcolm had often found himself in hand-to-hand combat situations, had been shot and beaten, but then he had still been able to make caustic remarks, the corners of his mouth twitching in that dry, British way of his. Now, however, the ironic sparkle in his eyes had vanished, and the silent, unresponsive man that remained reminded Trip only vaguely of the Malcolm he had known.

But he couldn't talk to him. It wasn't really the time for talking when all you did was trying to live through another day without starving to death or getting raped by the guards. And what was he supposed to say, anyway? _"Come on, Mal, what's wrong? Except for the fact that we're going to be sold into slavery on an alien planet, and will probably never see each other again."_

That was another thing they couldn't talk about. The very likely possibility that they were going to be separated, sold to different buyers and thus losing the last connecting link to their old life back on Enterprise. Even now, standing in line to be inspected before the sale began, Trip refused to think of it, to think of how it would feel to be completely alone. He had gotten used to the thought that Jon wasn't looking for them, even though somewhere deep down in an irrational part of his mind he was still hoping he might be, after all, faked substances be damned. But he couldn't think of how it would be to lose Malcolm as well. To have _no one at all_.

The sound of loud voices caught his attention. There was a movement further down the line, and Trip saw that the guard had Kalem, the Andorian, on his knees, twisting his arm so he couldn't get up. The Andorian was struggling in her grip, sobbing and screaming as she rammed her knee into his back.

"Damn blue-skinned bastard!" she panted as she tried to restrain him with a pair of handcuffs. Neither the doctor nor the captain lifted a finger to help her, the latter watching in disgust as she hit the prisoner hard on the back of his head with her fist. Kalem cried in pain and suddenly turned to one side, causing the guard to stumble and fall. One second was enough for him. The Andorian was on his feet and a moment later he held a small, black weapon in his hand which he had pulled from the holster on the guard's hip. The woman stared up at him, her eyes wide and frightened, and the two Sar'veen men hastily retreated a few steps, drawing their own weapons. But Kalem did not shoot. Slowly, he walked backwards, away from the guard on the floor, the stolen weapon not trained on anyone but hanging loosely in his grip.

Trip saw the captain run his tongue over his lips.

"Drop the weapon and we won't hurt you!" he said, but Kalem was clearly not listening. His pupils were dilated with terror, two black, unseeing spots on his pale blue face.

"My children," he whispered. His hand was shaking, and for a moment Trip believed he was going to drop the weapon.

"Put down the weapon, and we'll take you to your children," the captain said, very gently, as if he were talking to a frightened animal. Kalem's unsteady eyes came to rest on him.

"Take me to...?" he repeated, his voice trembling, and the captain actually smiled at him.

"That's right. Just put down the weapon, and I'll make sure you'll see your children."

For a brief moment it looked as if Kalem was going to comply, but then his fingers tightened on the weapon's handle, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"Liar," he said. "You lie. You're not going to take me to my children." And suddenly he screamed "You killed them! You liar, you killed them!"

"He's damn crazy," the doctor muttered, raising his weapon, but the captain held up a hand.

"Wait!" he said quietly. "He's worth at least two thousand _pakh_. I don't want him injured."

Aloud he said, "You can trust me. I'm going to take you to your children, I promise."

Kalem's hand trembled harder, and tears began to run down his thin face. "No," he whispered. "No. They're dead. You're lying." He raised the weapon and pressed its muzzle against his temple. "You killed them."

"No!" The captain fired, aiming at Kalem's arm and missing by a few centimeters. But it was too late. Kalem pulled the trigger, and a moment later collapsed on the floor, his face and upper skull gone, the rest of his head a black, smoking mass.

"Great." Lowering his weapon, the captain walked over to the fallen body and nudged it with his foot. "Just great." He turned around to the guard who had retrieved her weapon and was now quickly scrambling to her feet. "Your incompetence has just lost me another two thousand _pakh_. Care to tell me how you're going to repay them?"

The guard went pale. "Captain, I-"

The captain cut her off. "I don't want to hear it. Get them dressed, and then take them to the salesroom. And clean up that mess." He jerked his chin at the dead Andorian.

"Aye, sir," the guard said, lowering her eyes when the captain gave her a last disdainful look before he left the room.

Then she drew herself up straight, and turned to the prisoners whose eyes were all fixed on the mangled body on the floor.

"What are you staring at?" she barked. "Put these on, and then get back in line! Move!"

She gestured at a large crate in one corner of the room; the guards had dumped it there before they began cleaning the prisoners. Now that they were being pushed towards it, Trip saw that the crate contained clothes, old worn-out shirts and trousers of a shabby, nondescript color. In a way, he felt relieved; he'd been afraid that, in order to make things less complicated, these people were going to sell them naked.

The smell of burned flesh was still hanging in the air, and Trip felt his stomach give a lurch when he bent down to pick a shirt and a pair of trousers. The Andorian's corpse lay only a few meters away, and Trip remembered how he had first met Kalem, a mad stranger in a dark, stinking place. And he realized that in a small part of his mind, a part whose existence he had only just discovered, he envied the man. Kalem had escaped into his own world, fleeing from reality by willingly succumbing to the madness that lurked everywhere in this place, and finally fleeing from life itself.

Trip noticed that most of the people avoided looking at the dead body, acting as if it were only another one of the dirty towels that lay crumpled up on the floor. And he knew he was not the only one envying Kalem.

He pulled the shirt over his head and winced when the coarse fabric made contact with the cut on the back of his head. The clothes he had picked didn't really fit, as was the case with most of the prisoners, the shirts and trousers hanging loosely off their emaciated bodies. It was a relief, though, having a protecting layer of fabric between your skin and the guards' lewd stares.

Malcolm had silently chosen his clothes and was now fastening the trousers' drawstring, pulling it tight so the pants wouldn't slide down his thin waist. Their eyes met and Trip had just opened his mouth to ask him once again if he was alright when the guard's voice interrupted him.

"I said back in line! Move it, there!"

They were herded back to the middle of the room and lined up again. Trip stayed close to Malcolm, even though the Lieutenant didn't seem to notice or care, his eyes downcast and his face expressionless. On an order of the Sar'veen woman, the guards began to restrain the prisoners, securing their wrists with handcuffs made of a smooth, metal-like material.

"Hands on your back!"

Trip did as he was told, and felt the guard fit the cuffs around his wrists. The hands securing the restraints did not withdraw immediately, though, and Trip tensed as someone roughly grabbed his behind.

"Nice," a voice whispered next to his ear, and Trip recognized Kher'van, the guard who had asked him whether he liked the food. "Very nice. Too bad I didn't get the chance to-"

"Let him go!" The voice of the female guard interrupted him, and Trip saw that she was coming their way, her eyes dark with fury. Immediately, Kher'van removed his hand.

"I've had enough trouble because of you, Kher'van! Either keep your hands off the slaves, or-"

"Alright, alright!" In an exaggerated gesture, the guard raised his hands and proceeded to handcuff the next person in line. The woman glared at him, then left to return to her vantage point at the far end of the room. Trip bit his lip, taking comfort in the mental image of punching Kher'van so hard in the face that the man's nose was only a bloody pulp afterwards. He noticed Malcolm watching him, but for some reason couldn't bring himself to meet the Lieutenant's eyes just now. Very soon, either of them might become the rightful property of a person just like Kher'van, and then there was nothing they could do to but accept that dignity and self-respect were a luxury they could no longer afford. Trip knew that, and he knew Malcolm did, too, but still he couldn't bring himself to look at the Lieutenant.

In the meantime the guards had finished. The woman, hands on her hips, let her eyes wander across the prisoners lined up before her, then nodded once.

"Alright," she said. "Now listen up. I'm only going to say this once. If you give us any trouble or do anything to sabotage the sale, then believe me, I'll make sure you'll regret it. And just so you know, it's for your own good to put on a nice smile out there. The sale will be going on for three days, and after that we expect to have sold out of our current stock. I can assure you no one will be left over, one way or another. So you'd better see to it that you find someone who'll buy you."

Trip thought of Lu'Vis who stood a little further down the line, and felt something clench in his chest. Even after all those days in the cargo hold, he still found it difficult to believe that someone would do this to living, sentient beings, treat them like a farmer would treat his fruit or vegetable at a market sale - sell as many as he could and then throw away the rest at the end of the day.

The guards opened the door, and for the first time since they had been brought aboard this ship, Malcolm and Trip left the cargo hold. The prisoners were marched down a long, dimly lit corridor, the guards pushing them and swearing at those who didn't catch up with the rest fast enough. Finally they came to a halt in front of a large, gray bulkhead. The female guard turned around, giving the crowd a last look-over, and then proceeded to press the panel next to the door.

They were led into a huge hall, almost three times as big as the cargo hold. In sharp contrast to the latter this place was clean, however, brightly lit and crowded with dozens of well-dressed Sar'veen who turned around when the prisoners were brought into the hall. Passing the people who stared at them as if they were only so many slices of meat, they were marched to the far end of the hall. There was a small stage at the back of the room - the auction block, Trip assumed. The Captain and another Sar'veen stood a few meters away, watching as the group came to a halt next to the block. Involuntarily, the prisoners huddled closer together, some of the frightened people beginning to cry. Trip watched Kher'van slap a woman in the face, punching her in the ribs when she wouldn't stop crying.

"Stop that bawling, you bitch!" he hissed. "You've been warned, don't even think of causing any trouble, or else."

The woman swallowed, visibly biting back the sobs that threatened to come out. "Yes, sir."

Using their clubs and fists, the guards scattered the group until the prisoners were standing about an arm's length apart. Trip managed to stay next to Malcolm who didn't even raise his eyes when one of the guards smacked him on the side of his head to get him moving.

The captain, who had been watching the procedure with a certain air of impatience, nodded at the man next to him. The man, unlike the guards and the captain not wearing a uniform but a long, dark green robe, called something in the direction of the crowd. Trip didn't understand the words, but realized that it must have been some sort of invitation when the Sar'veen started walking towards them.

What now followed was another examination, but one far more thorough and humiliating than the first one. The Sar'veen walked up to the slaves they deemed worthy of having a look at, felt their arms and legs, pulled open their mouths to inspect their teeth and discussed their various merits and flaws with the other customers as if they were talking about breeding stock at a cattle market. Many of the prisoners stood completely still during the examination, frozen with terror and humiliation, others started to cry, but none of them dared to offer resistance, not even when some of the customers grabbed them between the legs. It happened more than once, and Trip felt a deep hatred for those men and women, and their utter disregard for the feelings and dignity of their fellow beings.

He had to force himself not to shrink back when one of the Sar'veen pulled up his eye lids, seized his jaw to turn his head from side to side and declared him a "fine article." It made him furious, but what was even worse was the terrible shame he felt at being touched and treated like that, at being nothing but a _thing_ to these people. Finally the man let go of him again, but Trip found his relief had been premature. Before he knew what was happening, the Sar'veen grabbed him and squeezed him hard, saying something to another man who nodded approvingly. It hurt, but Trip wasn't really aware of the pain. His blood rushed into his cheeks, and all he could think of was killing this man, as slowly and painfully as possible.

A man about Jon's age had started to examine Malcolm, squeezing the muscles in his arms while another Sar'veen watched and from time to time commented on his friend's stock examination.

"He's rather small," the onlooker said, looking Malcolm up and down. "Handsome fellow, but rather small."

"He's in good condition." The other Sar'veen proceeded to feel Malcolm's legs. "I bet he's quite strong, judging by those muscles. I'm - look at that!"

The man had lifted Malcolm's shirt and was now frowning down at the bruise, probing the discolored skin with his fingers and ignoring Malcolm's gasp of pain. The onlooker bent down to get a closer look, and Trip saw tears of humiliation gather in Malcolm's eyes. To spare his friend the additional embarrassment, he turned his eyes away, and a moment later heard the Sar'veen's voice: "Damaged goods. Better not waste your money on him; chances are that he'll die a few days after you've bought him."

Trip's attention was diverted by a man, between fifty and sixty years old, who had come to a halt in front of him, and was now scrutinizing him in a business-like way. The man was rather stocky, and his gray skin had an unhealthy look to it, as if he didn't go outside very often. His round face and receding hairline matched the rest of his appearance; a man who was well off but didn't think it necessary to take good care of himself.

When the man stepped closer to begin the inevitable examination of Trip's teeth, eyes and muscles, he brought his face closer to Trip's, and the engineer could smell the not-so-faint traces of alcohol on the man's breath.

The captain, walking around among the slaves and customers and extolling the quality of his goods, saw that the man was interested and immediately was at his side.

"Very good, sir," he said when the stranger looked up from his examination of Trip's legs. "This one's top quality, strong and good-looking. You can use him for work as well as for... other things."

He grinned suggestively, but the man only nodded and straightened up again. Without paying any further attention to the captain, he walked over to Malcolm and submitted him to the same examination. He didn't lift his shirt, though, and so the bruise stayed unnoticed for the time being.

The captain had just opened his mouth again, probably to tell him that Malcolm was very good at doing hard work and... other things (a thing he said about every prisoner younger than himself), when the man interrupted.

"I need a waiter," he said. "Or two, but I'm not sure I can afford them both." He looked at Trip who suddenly felt a wild surge of hope. "Do you have any waiting experience?"

"Yes, sir," Trip lied smoothly. "My friend here and me, we were servin' as stewards back on our ship."

Malcolm raised his head at that, but the man only laughed. It was not an entirely unkind sound, though. "Sure." He turned to the captain. "I still don't think I can buy them both. Business has been slack lately, and I've heard the prices have gone up."

"Oh, it's not that bad," the captain assured him quickly. "And besides, you'll be making a good deal; they're both young and strong, and it always makes a good impression to have handsome servants waiting on the customers."

"I won't argue that one." The man ran a hand over his chin, looking from Trip to Malcolm. "We'll see. I'll buy at least one of them, that's for sure."

The captain smiled, satisfied, and Trip stole a look at Malcolm, seeing his own, desperate hope mirrored in the Lieutenant's eyes. Maybe they weren't going to be separated, after all. And working as a waiter didn't sound too bad. There were worse things a slave could be forced to do. A lot worse.

The sale began. The Denobulan whose wife had been killed was the first one the captain pushed up the steps to the block. He stood there, his eyes wide with terror, as the auctioneer in the dark green robe accepted the bids coming from the crowd. After only a few minutes the man was sold, and pushed from the block to the foot of the stairs where his new owner was waiting for him. Lu'Vis was next, and against her expectations she was bought by an elderly Sar'veen woman, but her face did not betray any relief when she came down the stairs.

By now, Trip felt a hard knot of fear sitting in the pit of his stomach, and it tightened every time another prisoner was dragged to the block. It was horrible, watching as sentient beings were auctioned off like furniture or pieces of equipment, but his horror was gradually blotted out by the panic he felt at the prospect of mounting that block himself. Everyone out there in the crowd, no matter how cruel or perverted, could buy him or Malcolm and then do with them whatever he pleased. No one was going to stop him, just like nobody stopped the captain from pushing the crying woman to the steps of the auction block.

"Trip."

He turned around and saw Malcolm, his face pale and eyes dark with fear, standing next to him. The Lieutenant only looked at him, and Trip understood. This might be the last time they saw each other - hell, the last time they saw another human being in their life - but there was no time to talk. He nodded, and Malcolm held his gaze for a moment. Then suddenly the captain was there, grabbing Malcolm's arm and giving him a hard jerk.

"Move it!"

Trip watched, frozen, as his friend was being led to the block and pushed up the stairs. Once he had mounted the last step, Malcolm threw a quick, nervous look at the crowd, and stumbled as the auctioneer took him by the arm and pulled him forward.

The crowd was calling out their bids in rapid succession, and the noise made it impossible for Trip to make out what they were saying, let alone who was participating in the bidding.

Malcolm's cuffed hands were trembling. The last bids were coming in, and only a second later the auctioneer called out, "... once, twice, sold for 2380 _pakh_!"

Feeling sick, Trip watched as Malcolm slowly walked down the stairs, head bowed and face burning crimson. The Lieutenant didn't even look up as his buyer, the man who needed a waiter, took his arm and led him away from the steps.

Someone pushed him, and Trip heard the captain's voice next to his ear.

"Come on, you're next!"

Trip didn't offer any resistance as he was pulled towards the steps. Suddenly the noise of the crowd seemed to be coming from far away, and his attention narrowed down to the steps in front of him and the captain's hand that held his arm in a vise grip.

"Up you go!"

He was given a hard shove, and a moment later he was standing on the platform, the combined noise and light enough to numb his senses for a second or two. Then, however, reality slowly faded in again, and Trip raised his head to face the crowd in front of him.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi, Ocean, The Libran Iniquity (the second possibility, I think -g-...), rebekah78, Luna, WhtevrHpnd2Mary, Rinne, highonscifi, Maraschino, lieutenants-lady, Tata, Eyes on Tactical (Danke ;-)!), stage manager, CordeliaBlack and KaliedescopeCat for reviewing!

Well, I know this is not a very "Christmassy" story (no kidding -g-), but still, to all my readers: Merry Christmas, and thank you so much for reviewing!

Hope you'll like Chapter 5! Please r&r!

Chapter 5

The shouts were deafening, and there was no way Trip could distinguish what the people were yelling. All he saw were eyes staring up at him and open mouths, mingling together in a gray mass of faces. He couldn't move, and didn't even feel it when the auctioneer laid a hand on his arm, calling out something to the crowd.

Trip couldn't tell how long he'd been standing there when the noise began to subside. Only a few people were still participating in the bidding, among them the man who had bought Malcolm. Trip saw the Lieutenant standing next to him and their eyes met for a brief moment, then Trip looked away again. Being exposed like this, he couldn't bear to look at the only person in that crowd who accepted him as a living, feeling being, and not merely as an article of trade. It only brought to his awareness how little dignity they still had left.

"2350 _pakh_!" a bidder in the front called, and Trip saw that the man couldn't be much older than himself. His face was flushed, and it was clear that he found the bidding exciting, as if it were a sporting event.

He was soon outbid by another, and in the end there were only two people left, a middle-aged man with a hard, thin mouth who had already bought two of the slaves auctioned off before Trip, and the man next to Malcolm.

The auctioneer was doing his best to prolong the bidding for as long as he could, but the Sar'veen with the hard mouth soon lost interest, and when his opponent raised his bid to 2420 _pakh_, he only gave him a disdainful look and turned away.

"2420!" the auctioneer called, and when no one reacted, he tightened his hand on Trip's arm. "Going once... twice... _sold_ for 2420 _pakh_!"

Trip let himself be pushed towards the stairs, watched his feet walk down the steps, but he was hearing nothing, feeling nothing. A distant part of him realized that his new owner was the man who had bought Malcolm as well, and that this was something he should be glad of, but as he stepped down from the block his insides were frozen, numb with shame and abasement.

At the bottom of the stairs his buyer was waiting for him, taking him by the arm and pulling him away from the steps to make room for the next prisoner. As he stood next to Malcolm, Trip watched the man hand the captain a small chip, obviously some kind of electronic check form. The captain inserted the chip into a padd, and nodded in satisfaction when he looked at the display.

"Thank you, sir." He smiled. "I'm sure you'll find yourself most satisfied. They're both top quality, and I dare say you got your money's worth."

"Well, I hope so," the man replied dryly, then turned around with a brief wave of the hand in their direction. "Come, you two."

He walked off without looking back, and they followed, quickening their pace to keep up with the man. Trip threw Malcolm a glance from the corner of his eye, and to his surprise the Lieutenant met his eyes, his lips curving upward in a very faint smile. It was the fact that Malcolm was smiling for the first time in over a week that broke through his numbness, and Trip nodded, finally allowing himself to feel glad and relieved that they were still together. When they passed the last rows of buyers, Trip's eyes fell on Lu'Vis who stood a few meters away, next to the elderly woman who had bought her. The woman had already freed her of the handcuffs, and Lu'Vis was rubbing her wrists, her dark eyes wrinkling in an almost-smile when she saw him.

"Good luck," she said quietly, just loud enough for him to hear. Trip answered her smile, and to his surprise he found that it wasn't even that hard.

They left the hall through a different door than before, one that led into a short corridor. At the end of the hallway there was an airlock, looking quite similar to the one back on Enterprise. The armed guard next to the passage nodded at their buyer, then pressed a panel on the wall to open the lock. On entering the gateway, Trip noticed that the wall paneling of the passage and the frame of the airlock merged smoothly into one another, so that there was no way to tell where the ship ended and the passageway began. The Sar'veen technology seemed to be a lot more advanced than Starfleet standard, at least where starship construction was concerned.

As they left the gateway, Malcolm and Trip involuntarily stopped in their tracks. They were standing in one of the largest halls they had ever seen, separated into dozens of levels that were connected by stairs and chutes of glass and metal which Trip recognized as a very advanced form of turbolifts. The whole gigantic construction was lit by hundreds of fluorescent tubes, and there were masses of people coming and going on every level, their voices echoing in the hall and joining the pandemonium of sound, light and color. Trip saw restaurants and shops, a place three levels below that seemed to be a public swimming pool, huge garden areas filled with alien plants of all shapes and colors, and hundreds of doors and bulkheads leading away into all directions. After all those days in a cramped cargo hold where all you ever saw were the faces of the other prisoners and the guards, the sensory stimulation was too much, and Trip turned his eyes away. In the wall next to the airlock there was a huge window, and outside he could see shuttles and small ships passing by, most of them coming from or headed for the planet below.

"Come on!"

Their buyer's voice brought him back to the present. The man had come to a halt a few meters ahead, looking back at them with an expression of mild exasperation. He waited for them to catch up with him, and to his surprise Trip saw that the corners of his mouth were twitching slightly.

"Never seen something like that before, huh?" he asked, and continued before either of them could answer, "I find it pretty impressive myself, every time I see it. Second-largest space station we've ever built."

Trip stared at him, perplexed by the affable tone of the statement. The guards had only ever shouted at them - except for the one time when Kher'van had offered him extra rations in exchange for some time spent in the crew's quarters - and so far Trip had thought that the Sar'veen weren't in the habit of talking to their slaves. Their buyer, however, continued to chat as they followed him down the corridor, but for all he was talking, he didn't seem to expect an answer to his comments.

"Some people say the government's wasting their budget, spending so much money on space travel, but I think it's a good thing. For example this station - people've been complaining for years that the construction swallowed up their tax money, and now it's one of the most-used trading centers of the system. Those reactionaries are the ruin of this nation, that's what I say."

He seemed to warm to the subject, but Trip was too tired and confused to listen. He glanced at Malcolm who was trudging along next to him, and saw his own confusion mirrored on the Lieutenant's face. He had no idea why the Sar'veen was telling them about these things, and he didn't really care, either. At least the man was only talking politics, and not hitting them or asking if they were interested in better food.

They passed several shops selling various sorts of toiletries (or at least Trip thought they did - some of the articles displayed in the windows were completely alien to him), and finally came to a halt in front of one of the turbolift chutes.

When they entered the lift, the Sar'veen was still talking, now explaining in detail what he thought of the latest changes in the Financial Department. It was a rather surreal conversation for the man seemed to be talking to himself, never even taking a break to look if they were listening. Briefly, Trip wondered what kind of person would buy two people at an auction and then expect them to be interested in his opinion of current politics, but then he shrugged off the thought. During their time in the cargo hold, his mind had started to divide everything that happened into "threatening" and "non-threatening", and this was, while rather confusing, definitely non-threatening.

Still, he felt almost relieved when the lift came to a halt. This time they entered a hangar, very large but by far not as spacious as the main hall of the station, which had been at least twenty times as big.

There were dozens of small crafts and vessels lined up on the floor, the huge airlocks at the end of the hangar opening and closing on a steady basis so the shuttles could come and go. Their buyer led them past the rows of ships until he stopped in front of a small vessel. It was about the size of shuttlepod I - even the streamlined design was somewhat familiar - but Trip had to take only one look at it to see that this ship was warp-capable. And he suspected it could take on Enterprise anytime, probably even go faster than her without straining its engines too much. He saw Malcolm's eyes widen, and knew that the Lieutenant had noticed as well.

The Sar'veen never saw their surprised looks. He had opened a hatch on the shuttle's side, and was now motioning at the opening with a slightly impatient gesture.

"What are you waiting for? Come on, get inside."

Moving awkwardly with their hands tied behind their backs, they climbed inside. Except for the pilot chair the shuttle had no seats, and the loading space in the back was half filled with various boxes and containers. The Sar'veen had stopped his running commentary on politics and was now looking around as though considering where it would be best to have them seated during the flight.

"Sit down here." He gestured at a space between the helm and one of the containers. It wasn't easy, lowering themselves to the floor without using their hands for support, but they managed. Once they were sitting, the Sar'veen pulled out two larger pairs of cuffs which he fit around their ankles. Trip watched him tie the straps that were attached to the cuffs to a bar on the wall, and let out a small sigh. He was getting rather tired of being locked up, handcuffed or otherwise restrained in his freedom most of the time.

The Sar'veen went to sit down in the pilot chair, and began to work the navigation controls. From his position on the floor Trip could only see a small part of the hangar outside, but the hum of the boosted engines and the following slight shudder told him that the shuttle had taken off. The Sar'veen steered them into one of the airlocks, and after only a minute the interior of the hangar was replaced by the stars.

As soon as they had left the airlock, the man switched the navigation to autopilot and turned around in his seat to face his two newly acquired slaves.

"So...," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "What are you called? I hope your names are not some of those terrible alien tongue-twisters; in that case I'm going to change them. I'm horrible at memorizing names."

He grinned. A short pause followed, and Trip, who felt that some kind of reaction was in order, decided to begin.

"I'm Charles Tucker," he introduced himself.

The man raised an eyebrow at him. "Sir," he said.

Trip hesitated for a moment. "Charles Tucker, sir," he repeated then.

The Sar'veen looked at Malcolm. "And you?"

"Malcolm Reed, sir."

The man rubbed his chin, considering. "Charles Tucker and Malcolm Reed. Well, that's not too bad. I guess I'll be okay as long as I call you Tucker and Reed. I just have to be careful I don't mix you up. You look so alike."

That was a new one. Trip, who had never before been told that he looked anything like Reed, exchanged a glance with Malcolm and saw that the Lieutenant was surprised as well.

"Or maybe it's just that pink skin," the Sar'veen added as an afterthought. "By the way, I'm Orven. But you don't call me that. You call me sir," he shot Trip a pointed look, "or master. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," they muttered, and Trip knew that he was going to have to use the word "sir" a lot, for he would never call another man "master", not when he still had a say in the matter.

"I take it," Orven continued, "that you haven't been slaves all your life?"

"No, sir," they replied in unison, and Trip saw Malcolm raise his chin as he answered, looking the man straight in the eyes. Orven didn't notice or decided to ignore their challenging tone, letting out a small sigh.

"So I'll have to start the training business all from square one. But I think we're going to get along just fine if you don't give me any trouble, and obey the rules."

He paused, waiting. "Yes, sir," they said, and Orven continued.

"Good. Now listen up. I'm only going to say this once, and I expect you to keep it in mind. First, I expect you to do exactly as I say. No arguing, no backtalk. On K'tera, a slave only speaks when spoken to, and that's what you're going to do, too. If you do have something to say, then you're going to ask for my permission to speak.

Then, I want you to keep yourselves clean. I have no idea if you're used to washing on a regular basis, brushing your teeth or using a bathroom, but you're going to have to get used to it."

Malcolm raised his head at that, his cheeks flushed with anger. "We're-"

"What did I tell you, Reed?" Orven interrupted sharply. "You speak only when spoken to. If you're used to these things, it's just as well. My customers expect to be served by clean, well-groomed servants, and you're going to see to it that you are exactly that." He paused. "Alright. I expect you to work hard, and not be lazy or do a sloppy job. I paid a lot of money for the two of you, and if I catch you lazing around, you're going to be in trouble. Understood?"

He waited for their muttered "yes, sir" before he continued.

"You're not going to leave the property without my permission. And keep out of trouble. I don't care if you get it on with the housemaids next door or find another way of having it off, just - keep out of trouble.

And now listen closely." He looked from one to the other. "If I ever catch one of you stealing something - no matter what it is - then I'm going to give him a whipping he won't soon forget. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Orven turned back to the navigation controls. "It's about time I got new waiters. I had a Vulcan but he died three months ago; some sort of virus, I have no idea. Then my brother borrowed me two of his slaves, but they were lazy bastards, never lifting a finger as soon as I turned my back to them. I had to close down for a few weeks, but with a little bit of luck I'll be able to reopen the day after tomorrow."

He continued talking about how he hoped to get back into business with several new recipes he had found, but Trip soon stopped listening to what he was saying. Orven obviously had a great need to communicate, but didn't really care if the people he was talking to were interested or not. The fact that they were not allowed to speak unless someone asked them a question was very convenient in this case, since Orven did not ask any questions and they were spared from commenting politely on his ongoing monologue.

Trip leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, for the first time realizing how tired he was. The shock of being sold had worn him out mentally and physically, and his metabolism was still affected by the drugs. It was difficult not to doze off, but something told him that he had to stay awake in this new, unfamiliar environment. Forcing himself to open his eyes again, he looked at Malcolm and saw that the Lieutenant's eyes were drooping as well. Still, he preferred a sleepy Malcolm to the man back in the cargo hold who had lain with his eyes open for hours at a time, not moving and not responding when Trip asked him if he was okay. The fact that Malcolm had protested when Orven doubted their hygienic habits raised Trip's hopes that the Lieutenant was going to be alright. To Malcolm, a well-groomed appearance was an integral part of his self-image as an officer and gentleman, and seeing him protest when someone questioned that image told Trip that his friend hadn't given up completely yet.

Orven was still rattling on about his business plans, and Trip found himself amazed at how much that guy could talk without ever taking a break or a breath. In a way, he found himself confused by the man. The guards, while openly cruel and even sadistic, had been less difficult to deal with. As long as you avoided them the best you could and kept a low profile, you got by fairly well. Orven, however, was different. He clearly did not regard them as equals, and on the other hand talked to them as if they were old pals, ordered them not to speak without permission and at the same time chatted on about his personal life like they were the only people who would listen. Which, Trip realized, might well be the case. Orven did look like someone who led a fairly lonely life.

"... or don't you think so, Tucker?"

Trip had no idea what the man had been talking about, but thought it might be best to agree. "Yes, sir."

"See, even you think so, although you probably don't know a thing about business management. It's just a common sense thing, but tell that to the city council..."

He went on about the council's lack of foresight, but Trip wasn't listening anymore. The shuttle had entered the planet's atmosphere, and he saw white streaks of clouds passing by outside, which after a while were replaced by a blue sky. It wasn't exactly the azure of the sky back on Earth, a little darker and with a soft, moss-green tint, but the similarity was still there. A touch of homesickness broke through Trip's weariness, and he quickly pushed it away before his thoughts could turn to the people back on Enterprise. It wouldn't be a good idea to think of that now.

The shuttle descended further, and soon the planet's surface appeared in the small part of the front window which they were able to see from their position. Trip saw green and yellow patches, presumably fields, and scattered settlements which after a while made way to a city. A very large city. At first, they passed houses with only ten or fifteen floors, but it was only a matter of time until he saw skyscrapers at least a hundred stories high, maybe more. What was even more surprising was how aesthetically pleasing most of those buildings were, forming a sharp contrast to the bulky office blocks Trip associated with the metropoles back on Earth. He was baffled how someone could build such curved constructions and fragile-looking passageways without running the risk of the whole building coming down again. Clearly, the Sar'veen had reached a designing level far more advanced than the architectural standard back on Earth. The smooth surface of the buildings reflected the sun, and Trip squinted, momentarily dazzled by the blinding brightness.

They didn't pass as many shuttles and aircrafts as he would have expected, and it was clear that there was no need for a controlled traffic system. The shuttle was still running on autopilot, and Orven only threw an occasional, brief glance at the helm controls. By now, they had flown past the highest of the skyscrapers, but the city seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions. Trip threw a brief glance at Malcolm and saw that the Lieutenant's earlier sleepiness had vanished, his face a mixture of astonishment and disbelief as he looked out the window.

Orven never wasted a second look on the panorama, still intent on the subject of the city's business management or lack thereof. They had left the last of the skyscrapers behind, and were now approaching an industrial area, huge windowless factory buildings side by side with identical-looking warehouses.

"There we are," Orven interrupted his business talk, and Trip saw that he had switched the navigation back to manual control. He flew a wide arc, and after passing several huge, shabby-looking apartment houses initiated the landing approach. Again, the shuttle shuddered slightly as it made contact with the ground. Outside, Trip could only see gray stonewalls, apparently a backyard of some kind. Orven fumbled with the helm controls for a moment, then swung around in his chair and got up.

"Alright," he said, "time's a-wasting, it's late in the afternoon and we still need to unload all that stuff before it gets dark." He waved at the boxes and containers in the back. "Can't leave it in the shuttle over night, some of the fruit needs to be kept in stasis."

He crouched down to take off their restraints, then shoved the cuffs carelessly under the pilot seat.

"Come on, get up."

Slowly, they got to their feet, using the wall for support. Trip blinked to get rid of the giddy feeling that washed over him; he was still tired, and it was at least twelve hours ago when he had last had something to eat. Malcolm looked rather exhausted as well, but Orven never noticed. He had already opened the hatch, and was now checking his cargo in the back, counting the various boxes and crates.

"Alright," he said when he was finished. "Tucker, you start unloading those boxes in the front, and stack them up next to the back door; and you, Reed, take the small crates. Yes, the black ones. Be careful, those are glassware."

When Trip climbed out of the shuttle, carrying the first of at least twenty heavy boxes, he saw that they had indeed landed in a small, dirty backyard. It was surrounded by gray walls, at least three meters high, and littered with old wrapping paper, pieces of wooden crates and other, unidentifiable trash. On one side there was the back of a two-story brick building with several windows, gray with dust and dirt, and a metal back door.

He set the box down next to the door, careful not to step on any of the scattered glass shards on the ground. They hadn't been given shoes when the guards had handed out the clothes before the auction, and so he and Malcolm were still barefoot. It was rather cold, and the stony ground felt icy under his feet.

They spent the next half an hour unloading the cargo. Orven made no move to help them, but he didn't get angry either when Trip stumbled and dropped the box he was carrying. He only told him to be more careful, and even helped him pick it up again.

When they were done (by now they were both shaking with cold), Orven unlocked the backdoor which led to a spacious storage room. He ordered them to carry the boxes inside, and then had them unpack the fruit and store it away in a large stasis unit that already contained various drinks and foodstuffs. Again, Trip was fascinated with the technology, but there was no time to get a closer look at it. Orven told them to hurry, he wanted the rest of the supplies to be stored away as well before evening.

It took them at least two and a half hours to unpack and stow away the alien foodstuff, not least because Orven decided more than once that he wanted the whole contents of one shelf moved to another, for logistic reasons, as he said. When the last cans were finally stowed away, all Trip wanted to do was lie down on the floor and go to sleep right here and now. The hunger made him dizzy, and in his weakened condition the lifting and carrying of heavy weights only added to his overall exhaustion. Malcolm wasn't much better off; Trip saw the Lieutenant's hands tremble when he put away the last of the now-empty boxes.

Orven, on the other hand, seemed to be wide awake and more talkative than ever; he rambled on and on, not noticing that both of his slaves were on the verge of collapsing with exhaustion.

He opened a door that led into the house and directly into a large, rather filthy-looking kitchen unit. Trip was still awake enough to notice that there was no stove, not even a microwave oven, but Orven soon explained why.

"Most of the meals on the menu are replicated," he said. "I only serve the fruit, vegetables, and bread fresh. So when someone orders, for example, _k'ven_, you simply enter the name of the meal into the replicator." He pointed at a large serving unit on the wall. It reminded Trip somewhat of the resequencer back on Enterprise, except for the fact that it had three sliding doors instead of only one, each provided with a small display and a keyboard with alien letters. When he noticed their looks, Orven raised his eyebrows at them.

"You do know how to read and write, don't you?"

He'd directed the question at Malcolm, who blushed slightly. "We-" he began, and Trip assumed he wanted to tell Orven that they did know how to read and write, but were unfamiliar with these letters. The Sar'veen, however, cut him off with a weary gesture. "Of course you don't," he sighed. "Why should you? But you'll have to memorize at least the meals on the menu; I don't have the time to stand in here all day and type in the names for you. I'm going to teach you tomorrow how to read them; it's not exactly legal, but you're not going to tell anyone about it, are you?"

"No, sir," they muttered, and Trip found he was too tired to think about the implications of Orven's last remark.

"Alright," Orven said. "It's getting late, and I still have a few calls to make before I turn in. Are you hungry?" he added as an afterthought, the thought apparently occurring to him for the first time.

"Yes, sir," they answered. Orven took a bag filled with small, greasy-looking pastries out of a cupboard, and handed it to Trip, then gave Malcolm a plastic bottle half-filled with water. The food looked as if it were at least a few weeks past its pull date, but Trip still felt his stomach clench with hunger at the sight.

After Orven had told them that he was going to show them around the house and the restaurant tomorrow - "we'll have to clean up in there, anyway" - they left the kitchen through a second door and followed him up a narrow staircase to the second floor of the building. The stairs ended in a dark corridor crammed with empty cardboard boxes and all sorts of discarded furniture. Pushing some of the boxes aside, Orven opened a door to the left.

"This is where you're going to sleep," he said.

The room was small and had only a small window directly below the ceiling. The walls were covered with an old, pale yellow wallpaper which was coming off in some places, and there was no furniture except for a chair, a cardboard box in the corner and two mattresses on the floor. A small tube embedded in the ceiling was the only light source in the room, giving off a dim glow.

"There's a servants' bathroom next door," Orven said. "As I said, I expect you to keep yourselves clean. If I notice you're not taking a shower at least once every other day, there's going to be trouble. I can't have my servants stinking to high heaven. You're going to have to use that," he pointed at a bucket in the corner, "since I'm going to lock the door overnight. But during the daytime I expect you to use the bathroom like civilized people, understood? If I notice you're doing your business somewhere outside, you'll catch it. Is that clear?"

He waited for their confirmation, then continued, "Well, you'd better get some shut-eye now. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

He closed the door behind them, and Trip heard the soft clicking of an electronic lock. When Orven was gone, they stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, then, surprisingly, Malcolm opened his mouth.

"I'm bloody starving," he said.

Trip smiled faintly in response, and they sat down on one of the mattresses each, placing the bag with the pastries on the floor between them. Before they could start to eat, however, the door opened again, and Orven was back.

"I found these for you," he said, dumping two gray blankets on the floor and closing the door again before either of them had the chance to react.

By now, Trip's stomach was cramping with hunger. He reached out and put one of the pastries in his mouth, finding that it tasted greasy - which was not surprising - and rather sweet. They emptied the whole bag in less than three minutes, washing down the sticky food with water from the plastic bottle. Neither of them talked while they ate, and even though his stomach protested mildly against the unfamiliarly heavy food, Trip relished the feeling of finally eating food that wouldn't leave him feeling dizzy and tired all over.

When they were done, they sat there for another while, and Trip felt like he ought to say something, start a conversation, but he was simply too tired. After a few minutes he got up and picked up the blankets Orven had brought.

"I think I'm gonna hit the sack," he said, handing Malcolm one of the blankets. The Lieutenant smiled a little in response, and Trip was glad to see it. Back on the slave ship, Malcolm had withdrawn completely into himself, but it seemed like the change of environment had wrought a change in the Lieutenant's behavior as well.

They spent a few minutes searching for a switch or button to turn off the ceiling lamp, but there was none, and so they lay down with the light still burning, too tired to really care. As he lay wrapped up in his blanket, Trip found the events of the day passing before his mental eye in a random fashion, the different scenes mingling together in one confusing chaos of faces, sounds and images. His thoughts returned to the auction, but he quickly repressed those scenes, having decided that he wanted to forget about that one hour of his life as quickly as possible and never think of it again. Briefly, he wondered where Enterprise was now; if there was anyone still looking for them out there. But thinking of that hurt as well, and soon Trip allowed himself to doze off, willingly succumbing to the sleep that was tugging at the edges of his mind.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi (tja, hätte er schon... aber vielleicht hat er auch seine perversen Bedürfnisse, die erfüllt werden müssen... -gg-), Antares Star, Sara, WhtevrHpnd2Mary (you want torture and pain? I think I can say that much: You're going to get what you're after... and soon -g-) , Tata, The Libran Iniquity (how do you know he isn't from Yorkshire ;-)?), Luna, lieutenants-lady, Maraschino, Eyes on Tactical, KaliedescopeCat, rebekah78, Exploded Pen, The Flaming Dragonfly, LoveChilde, Rinne, CordeliaBlack and stage manager for reviewing! I really love your feedback, and your encouragement! Thank you all so much!!!

Please read and review!

Chapter 6

"I want to thank you all that you have come here today."

Jonathan Archer's tone was firm, and Hoshi knew she was probably the only one of the crewmembers assembled in shuttle bay one who heard the slight crack in his voice as he continued. But then, she was used to pay attention to the things that lay beneath the surface. It sort of came with the job.

"I know that this is not easy for you. Many of you have expressed their wish - have demanded that we continue the search, that we exhaust all possibilities before we take this last step and say goodbye to those we have lost. I understand you, and believe me, it is not easy for me either.

But we cannot afford the luxury of time that others have. We cannot allow our grief to slow us down. We have a responsibility, towards all the people who have made it possible that this ship finally sets off on her mission, and towards the two crewmembers, the two friends we have lost.

I know that they would want us to continue. They would want us to go on, and do our best to complete this mission, just as they have always given their best for this ship and her crew.

And we will not forget them. We have lost two officers, and, even more important, two friends, and I know it is not easy..."

He broke off, and Hoshi held her breath, watching as Jonathan Archer covered his eyes with his hand and stood completely still for a moment. Then he lowered his hand again and raised his head, his voice cracking audibly as he continued.

"It is not easy to face it, to accept that they are really gone. It is even harder to accept that we will never know what has happened. But for all our grief and hurt, we must not only remember how they have died, but how they have lived. We must not forget all that they have given this crew, and we can honor their memory today by giving them the farewell they deserve."

He nodded, and Hoshi watched the empty coffins being closed, watched the first of the two gray cylinders slide into the launching tube. Many of the crew had tears in their eyes, some even crying openly, but Jonathan Archer was not one of them. His eyes were dry as he watched the second coffin being launched, and when the ceremony was over, he simply turned around and left. But Hoshi knew better. Most of the crew would be going to the mess hall now, to their quarters or back to their stations, continuing their every-day life and maybe even talking and smiling again before the day was over. Jonathan Archer, however, would not return to his quarters. He would be going to the observation deck, stare out at the stars for hours and try to come to terms with the loss he couldn't seem to cope with.

XXX

"Get your lazy ass over here, Tucker!"

Trip looked around for a place to put the heavily laden tray he was carrying, found none and simply set it down on the floor before he hurried off in direction of the kitchen. He saw Malcolm throw him a glance from the corner of his eye, and knew they were both having the same thought.

What -now-?

"I'm waiting, Tucker! And get yourself back to the dining room, Reed, the customers are waiting!"

Quickly, Malcolm disappeared with his own tray into the main room, and with an inward sigh, Trip entered the kitchen.

Orven was half-standing, half-leaning against the counter, and Trip saw that the bottle of brandy which had still been half-full only twenty minutes ago was now almost completely empty.

Not again, Trip thought.

The man's cheeks were flushed, and even when he was still two meters away Trip could smell the alcohol on his breath. As Orven's eyes came to rest on Trip, he pushed himself away from the counter, keeping one hand on the edge for support.

"Tucker, you fucking idiot, didn't I tell you to always close the door again when you take something out of the stasis unit? I'm lucky I went in there earlier, or I could've thrown away ten_ pakh's _worth of fruit!"

Trip stared at him in confusion. Orven knew as well as he did that he'd never even come near the stasis unit; Malcolm and he were forbidden to touch any of the stasis food, since Orven was afraid they'd mix up the various fruit sorts, and cause general mayhem with his expensive foodstuff.

"Sir, I didn't take anythin' out of the stasis unit. You must've left the door open yourself."

Orven's face went even darker than before. "Don't give me any of your lip, Tucker! You left it open because you're too stupid to-"

"I did not!" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Orven stared at him for a moment, his face showing a mixture of anger and almost comical surprise. Then he raised his hand and slapped Trip hard across the face.

"How dare you talk to me like that!" He brought his face close to Trip's, and Trip had to force himself not to step backwards at the foul smell of brandy on the Sar'veen's breath. "One more word, and I'm going to whip you so you won't be getting up again for quite some time!"

Yeah, right, Trip thought. _Another bottle of that brandy and you'll be the one who won't be getting up, asshole._

, Trip thought. 

He knew Orven wasn't going to act on his threat. When he was drunk, the Sar'veen often shouted at them and even slapped them around for no reason at all, but so far Orven had never carried out his threat and actually whipped one of them. Trip doubted that he would be able to do so in his inebriated state; a few days ago the man had even run into a door after consuming two bottles of brandy, and had subsequently spent two hours moaning and groaning on a chair in the kitchen, from time to time demanding a new icepack to cool the lump on his head.

When he was sober again, Orven mostly seemed to be feeling sorry for his outbursts; then he smiled at them, and told them they could have the left-overs from the dessert buffet. Still, on a particularly bad day about ten days ago he had thrown a can of pickled vegetables at Malcolm, which had hit him in the face and left a bruise that had still been visible a week later. Trip knew it was better to keep his mouth shut when the Sar'veen was in one of his drunken moods, and not provoke him further by protesting against the unfair treatment.

Orven had raised his hand as if he were going to hit him again, but now he lowered it and picked up the brandy that was still standing on the counter.

"Now get back to work, and if you give me any more trouble today..."

But Trip never found out what was going to happen if he were to "cause trouble" again. The Sar'veen lifted the brandy to his lips and took another big gulp, emptying the last of the bottle's contents.

Quietly, Trip left the kitchen and picked up the tray he had abandoned outside on the floor.

"You okay?"

Looking up, he met Malcolm's worried eyes. The Lieutenant had just returned from the dining room, his tray now laden with dirty glasses and plates.

"Yeah," Trip said. "He's stinkin' drunk again, keeps goin' on about that blasted stasis unit."

Malcolm, who'd had his fair share of trouble because of the stasis unit as well, rolled his eyes. "I'm still hoping he'll die of liver failure one day," he muttered, and Trip chuckled, setting off for the dining room door.

It was now two weeks ago when Orven had woken them up on their first morning, banging on the door and calling for them to get their butts out of bed. When he had opened the door, he had asked in a rather surprised tone why they had left the light burning, laughing out loud when they told him that they hadn't found the switch.

It turned out that the lamps, like most of the Sar'veen household gadgets, were voice-controlled, and that all you had to do was to say "lights off" or "lights on". For some strange reason, Trip felt ashamed every time he thought of Orven's amused chuckling.

After Orven had given them their new clothes - beige pants and white t-shirts with the restaurant's name on the back - he had taken them on a brief tour around their future work place. The restaurant was rather small, consisting of a cramped dining room and an outdoor patio surrounded by what Orven called the "lawn" - in fact it were only a few square meters of dried-up, yellowish grass. They had spent their first day thoroughly cleaning every nook and cranny, but the place still had a shabby air to it, like old clothes that have been washed time and again and still look worn-out and faded.

Most of Orven's customers were workers from the nearby factory site, who came in their work clothes and sometimes occupied a table for hours without ordering more than a few cheap drinks. Orven hated the workers, but still treated them very courteously since they formed the greatest part of his clientele. There were a few patrons from the neighborhood who came every evening, most of them ordering the same drink and meal every day, but other than that not many people came to eat at a small backstreet restaurant in a rather poor district of the city.

Only on the "weekends" - the Sar'veen week consisted of four working days, then one day off - the dining room became more crowded, and Orven got the chance to serve some of his "better" food. On the first day after the weekend the restaurant was closed, but Trip and Malcolm had soon learned that this did not mean a day off for them. In fact, they had come to hate those days, since Orven used his free time to get thoroughly stoned and vented his foul mood by shouting and swearing at them while they cleaned the dining room.

Trip's first impression had been right; Orven did lead a rather lonely life. His ex-wife would drop by from time to time, but those visits mostly ended in an argument and afterwards Orven needed even more brandy than usual. When he wasn't drunk (or at least not that drunk), he still talked a lot, and both Trip and Malcolm had learned to simply switch off, acting as if they were listening and at the same time not listening at all. It wasn't as if Orven expected an answer of them.

You learned to adapt, and you did so a lot faster than Trip would have thought. In the beginning, neither of them had known how to carry two full trays at once, but only a few broken glasses and a few slaps in the face later the waiting job had become a matter of routine to them. They learned to read enough of the Sar'veen letters to be able to replicate the meals on the menu, and they got used to simply shrugging it off when Orven called them names or hit them. And Trip noticed he was getting used to doing things that Commander Charles Tucker, Chief Engineer of the starship Enterprise, would not have approved of. He found himself lying through his teeth whenever he thought it would get him an advantage (or save him trouble), stealing food, and not doing the things he'd been told to do as long as he could get away with it. It had become a more or less natural part of his life to be hit and sworn at, and the more he got used to it, the more his personal moral standards faded away, making room for the part of him that concentrated on mere survival.

Trip was not the only one affected by the dull toil their lives had become. Malcolm wasn't as silent and withdrawn as he had been in the cargo hold, but on the day Orven threw the can at Reed Trip realized that the Lieutenant had changed as well.

Malcolm had come into the kitchen where Trip was putting away the trays, holding his cheek and using his other hand to press an old napkin against his nose. When Reed lowered the napkin, Trip could see traces of blood on the fabric. Malcolm's left cheek was swollen, and quickly turning a dark, angry red.

"What happened?" Trip asked, startled when he saw just how rapidly the skin was swelling. Malcolm sat down on a chair, tilting his head back to stop his nose from bleeding. Trip, seeing that the Lieutenant wasn't really able to speak at the moment, busied himself with wetting a dish towel in the sink.

"Here."

Reed held the towel against the side of his face, and after a while, the nosebleed subsided. By now the napkin was covered with dark, red stains.

"He threw a can at me," Malcolm mumbled when he was able to talk again. "Bloody bastard. Went totally crazy. I was wiping off the tables and he thought I was using a cloth I had already used for wiping the floor. He started yelling at me, that I was a dirty pig and had never heard of hygienic standards before. And then he threw that can at me. Hit me right in the face."

"Asshole," Trip muttered, and since there seemed nothing to add, he only took the bloodstained napkin and threw it into the waste recycler under the sink.

A few minutes later Orven called from the dining room, ordering Trip to bring him a drink. Trip poured a glass of brandy from the bottle on the counter, and was just about to leave the kitchen when Malcolm stopped him.

"Wait," he said, a nasty little smile tugging at his lips. "I'll fix him a drink alright."

He took the glass and disappeared into the customers' bathroom. Only a minute later he was back, handing Trip the glass. Nothing had changed, except that the liquid looked somewhat murkier than before.

"Malcolm...," Trip began, but the Lieutenant shook his head, the malicious smile still playing about his lips.

"Go on. He won't notice. Stuff tastes just the same, anyway."

Trip shrugged and took the "drink" to the dining room, watching not without a certain satisfaction as Orven downed the contents of the glass in one big gulp. As Malcolm had predicted, he never noticed, and Trip made a mental note never to accept a drink from Malcolm when he wasn't absolutely sure that the Lieutenant was _not_ angry with him.

It was this occasion Trip remembered on his way to the dining room, his cheek still stinging from the slap Orven had given him. Thinking that one day he might be mixing Orven a drink of his own, Trip began to serve the customer at the table next to the door, who barked at him what the hell had taken him so long,

"Sorry, sir," he said, and at the same time thought, _kiss my ass_.

That moment he heard Orven's voice from the kitchen: "Reed, you idiot, get yourself over here _now_!"

He sighed. It was going to be a long day.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to luna, Gabi, KaliedescopeCat (I know what you mean. My job can be like that, too ;-) ), WhtevrHpnd2Mary, Tata, Colleen (I don't agree with you. In my eyes, Trip and Malcolm are just normal people who are prone to weaknesses and mistakes, not heroes. Still, I respect your opinion; thank you for your comments), stage manager, Rinne, CordeliaBlack and The Libran Iniquity for reviewing.

Please read and review!

Chapter 7

Malcolm carried his tray through the verandah door out into the patio, passing several customers who shot him grumpy looks and muttered that they had been waiting for fifteen minutes _at the very least_.

He sighed. Today was weekend, and due to the warm weather the restaurant was more crowded than ever before. Customers kept calling for refills, and both he and Trip were rushed off their feet, serving drinks and meals and trying to carry the loads of dirty dishes back into the kitchen at the same time. The only good thing about the rush was that it kept Orven busy decorating the dessert plates and chatting politely with the customers, and didn't leave him any time to empty another one of his brandy bottles.

As he approached a table in the back of the patio, Malcolm felt apprehension rise at the back of his mind. The table was occupied by a large group of men, and Malcolm could see by their flushed faces that they were already rather inebriated, despite the fact that it was only late afternoon. Malcolm knew them; they came to the restaurant from time to time, always as a group and always in the mood for trouble. A week ago, Orven had even threatened them with the police when two of them had picked a fight, smashing glasses and knocking over the tables. But even when they were not starting a brawl, they always took great pleasure in giving him and Trip a hard time, deliberately spilling their drinks and dropping food to the floor.

"Hey midget, why the hell did it take so long?"

Malcolm ignored both the question and the insult, and proceeded to serve the men their drinks. He knew there was no use in reacting to their taunts, which was, of course, what they were aiming at. The man next to him belched loudly, and Malcolm could smell the beer on his breath. His friends roared with laughter, and the man, encouraged by their mirth, sniffed and spat on the ground right in front of Malcolm's feet. This caused another explosion of laughter, and Malcolm quickly picked up his tray, ignoring their jeers as he walked back to the verandah door.

"Excuse me... "

Surprised by the unusually friendly address, Malcolm turned and saw a woman a few tables away from the noisy group giving him a sign. As he approached her table, he saw that she had come with her husband and two kids, two little boys between six and eight. There was another woman sitting at their table, a young Denobulan who was presumably the boys' nanny. The younger one of the two kids was perched on her lap, looking at a picture book she was reading to him. Malcolm was surprised. Usually when some customers brought their servants - which didn't happen very often - they had them standing at the door or next to their chair, but never asked them to sit down at their table.

The Sar'veen woman smiled at him. "Busy day?"

Malcolm didn't really know what to say, and so he just smiled carefully in response.

"What can I bring you, ma'am?"

A long discussion with the children followed, and when they had finally decided that they both wanted the meat casserole but _not_ the vegetable side dish, their mother looked at the Denobulan.

"And you, Meelan?"

Meelan didn't seem surprised that she was asked as well. After she'd ordered a drink and a salad, the couple placed their orders as well, and the woman gave Malcolm another smile.

"Thank you."

He turned to go, and on his way back to the verandah door he heard the woman's quiet voice. "Now that's a nice young man, don't you think so, Meelan?"

Malcolm risked a look back, and saw that the Denobulan was smiling embarrassedly. A faint blush was creeping up her cheeks. The Sar'veen woman grinned at him, and Malcolm quickly turned back, almost stumbling on the doorstep as he went back inside.

Trip was in the kitchen, loading a tray with various plates and glasses he pulled from the replicator. He looked rather flustered, and didn't even raise his eyes when Malcolm entered.

"Those damn idiots," he muttered, setting down a glass with a little more force than necessary. Some of the liquid spilled over, and splashed onto the tray.

"What idiots in particular?" Malcolm asked, and began to stuff the dirty dishes into the recycler. Trip looked up.

"Oh, generally speakin'," he said. "I'm fed up with people sendin' back stuff because two crumbs of salt are missin', and spillin' their drinks so I have to change the table cloths every two hours. And I'm fed up with everybody yellin' at me to get movin' when all I'm tryin' to do is gettin' everybody their damn food. I'm just so damn fed up with it."

With that, he grabbed his tray and disappeared through the kitchen door. Malcolm sighed. Usually, Trip wasn't that easily affected by the stress and mostly shrugged it off when some of the customers decided to be particularly trying, but not today. Today, Trip was having a bad day, and it had been obvious from the moment he had gotten up and had inadvertently knocked over their toilet bucket. Later that morning, he had dropped his tray (which had not happened to either of them for quite some time), and had cut himself rather badly while gathering up the pieces of broken glass. Orven, of course, showed no understanding at all for a slave who was having a bad day, grabbed Trip by the back of his head and shoved him hard against the doorframe when he saw the mess on the floor. Now Trip was sporting a big, red lump over his left eyebrow, and looked ready to bite off the head of anyone who got in his way. Except, of course, that biting people's heads off would have rather unpleasant consequences concerning his own head. A little worried over his friend's foul mood, Malcolm began to enter the ordered meals into the replicator, and filled his tray again.

As he went out into the patio, Trip and Orven were there as well, the latter chatting with one of the customers and from time to time throwing angry looks at the group of drunken men, who had just ordered another round of beer. Malcolm passed their table as quickly as he could, and carried his tray over to where the family with the two kids was waiting.

As he served up their meals, the Denobulan woman met his eyes and smiled a little. Malcolm noticed that she had green eyes like a cat, and felt his cheeks grow warm.

A customer called out from the adjoining table, and Malcolm left, though not without another quick look at Meelan. She cocked her head a little, and Malcolm decided that she did have a really nice smile. The Sar'veen at the next table barked at him to hurry up, and he quickly gathered up the dirty dishes, stacking them on his tray.

On his way past her table Meelan smiled at him again, and maybe it was that smile that distracted him when he carried his tray back to the verandah door. He never saw the man who had spit at him stick out his leg, and a moment later he stumbled, lost hold of his tray and fell, his left elbow making painful contact with the stony ground.

The men broke into noisy laughter, and Malcolm grit his teeth, scrambling back to his feet.

"You idiot, look at that!"

Raising his head, Malcolm saw that the customer at the next table had gotten up. The man's trousers were spattered all over with gravy from the plates Malcolm had been carrying on his tray, and his face was scrunched up in anger.

"Can't you watch where you're going?" he yelled, and a moment later Orven was there, grabbed Malcolm by the shoulders and shook him angrily.

"Reed, you stupid idiot! Sometimes I think you're doing it on purpose!"

"But, sir-" Malcolm began, but Orven only raised a hand and slapped him hard across the face.

"I don't want to hear it! Now get yourself inside and get some hot water - sorry, sir," he added to the angry customer who had taken a seat again, now that the careless slave had been punished for his clumsiness.

The man who had caused Malcolm to stumble in the first place had been watching the small drama with an air of amused interest. Now he turned to Trip and raised his empty glass.

"How much longer is it going to take? Where's my beer?"

Malcolm watched Trip slowly set his tray down on one of the tables, and pick up a glass of beer. The look on his face showed clearly that he had been watching the whole incident, and that he was furious. Malcolm recognized that expression; it was the look Trip got when nothing and no one could stop him from doing something very stupid. In a split second, Malcolm realized what Trip was going to do, and wanted to call out, stop what was going to happen, but then Trip had already reached the table.

"Here you go, _sir_!" he said, and emptied the glass over the man's head, soaking him from crown to crotch.

For a moment, the patio went completely still. The customers lowered their forks and glasses, all eyes fixed on Trip who stood, empty glass in hand, his chest heaving. Then the soaked man gave an inarticulate roar, lunging at Trip, but the engineer seemed to have anticipated the attack and quickly sidestepped it. The man stumbled, and one of his friends gave a low chuckle.

"Shut up!" the Sar'veen yelled over his shoulder, then turned around to face Orven who had been watching the whole scene frozen with shock. "I want this slave punished," he said, his voice shaking with barely suppressed fury. "I want him whipped, right here and now."

"Sir-" Orven began, but he never got to finish his say. The Sar'veen woman with the two kids had risen from her table, ignoring her husband who was quietly imploring her to sit down again.

"Listen," she said, frowning. "You've been picking on these two men from the moment you've entered this restaurant. I'm not saying what he did was right, but don't you think the fault lies partly with you as well?"

"This is none of your business, lady!" the man snarled, then turned back to Orven. "If you don't punish him here and now, I'm going to report you to the police for allowing your slave to attack a Sar'veen citizen!"

Orven hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Very well, sir."

The woman's cheeks were flushed, and she brushed off her husband's hand with an impatient gesture. "That's ridiculous! He didn't attack you, he only spilled a glass of beer over your head. And no offense, sir, but you were asking for it!"

"I told you to stay out of this!" The man turned to her. "If you allow your slaves to sit at your table, then it's fine with me. But I'm not going to let this little alien shit insult a citizen of this planet and get away with it!"

The woman stared at him for another moment, then abruptly turned away. "Let's go," she said to her husband who looked rather relieved. "I don't want the children watching this."

After paying their bill, they left, and for a brief moment Malcolm met Meelan's eyes. Her expression was sad, almost apologizing.

When the family was gone, Orven turned to Malcolm. "Go inside and get the whip."

Malcolm knew where Orven kept a whip, even though the Sar'veen had never used it up until now. He looked at Trip, who was rather pale but hadn't said a word so far, and then back at Orven.

"No," he said. "I won't."

"Reed!" Orven hissed, taking him by the arm and giving him a hard shake. "Do you want me to whip you too?"

"Would be for the best," the man behind them commented, and Orven let go of Malcolm's arm.

"I'll get it myself," he said with a weary undertone. "But we're still going to have a talk about this, Reed."

He left in direction of the house. The man, who was still soaking wet and smelling of beer, gave Trip a hard dig in the ribs.

"Well, you're going to catch it _now_, buddy," he said, sneering. "I'd do it myself if I could, and believe me, you wouldn't be spilling beer over people's heads after I was through with you!"

Malcolm opened his mouth, but shut it again when he saw Trip imperceptibly shake his head. Trip was right; there was nothing he could do or say that wouldn't make things worse than they already were.

Orven was back from the house, carrying a whip in his hand. Without another word he grabbed Trip by the arm and dragged him over to the fence that surrounded the "lawn". The crowd followed, and Malcolm saw that many of them were grinning expectantly, excited at the prospect of some free entertainment. Malcolm wanted to do something, _anything_ to stop this, but knew that all he could do was stay here and watch so Trip wasn't all alone.

In the meantime, Orven had ordered Trip to take off his shirt, and when he didn't move, simply ripped it off in one quick movement and threw it to the ground. Pulling a piece of rope from his pocket, he pushed Trip to his knees and proceeded to tie his hands to the fence. Trip offered no resistance, and in a way, Malcolm was glad he didn't. This was going to be bad enough as it was.

The crowd watched expectantly as Orven moved into position behind Trip. Several of the customers had stayed at their tables, most of them acting as if nothing was happening, some throwing disgusted glances at the crowd in the back of the patio. The greater part of the guests, however, made no secret of the fact that they found the spectacle quite entertaining.

Malcolm closed his eyes when Orven brought down the whip for the first time. The loud smack hurt him almost physically, and he heard Trip gasp for air. One of the customers who hadn't joined the crowd of onlookers winced and got up, muttering something about "disgusting brutes" as he left.

Malcolm forced himself to watch as Orven raised the whip again and again. Somehow he felt it was the least he could do, stay here and not turn his eyes away even as the blood began to trickle down Trip's back, mingling with the sweat on his bare skin. So far, Trip had only given a few low whimpers, but Malcolm saw that his arms were shaking, his fingers clenched tightly around the fence post he was tied to.

Orven's face was flushed and the muscles in his jaw were working, but he didn't stop, not even when Trip finally gave a hoarse, agonized cry. Malcolm had never heard anything like that sound, so full of pain and helplessness. The crowd cheered, and encouraged Orven to go on. After another ten or twelve lashes Trip's voice broke, and that was when Orven finally lowered the whip.

Trip's back was covered in welts and open cuts, some of which were still bleeding, the blood trickling down his back and soaking the rim of his pants. For a moment, Orven stood completely still, breathing heavily, then dropped the whip with an almost angry gesture and set off for the verandah, not looking back at the crowd or Trip who was still tied to the fence.

"Take him back into the house," he said quietly when he passed Malcolm, his eyes still straight ahead. "But hurry up, the customers are waiting. Don't take too long."

He didn't wait for a reply and continued his way, disappearing through the verandah door without another look.

Now that the entertaining part was over, the crowd returned to their abandoned tables, resuming their meals and chatting as amiably as civilized people do on a nice, sunny day out. "Now that was a lesson he won't soon forget," Malcolm heard the Sar'veen man say to his friends as he passed their table. "Still, if I'd taken care of him, he wouldn't have gotten away that easily. I'd have whipped him until he begged me to stop."

And you would've been in for a long wait, Malcolm thought.

Trip was still slumped forward, his head hanging down between his arms. He didn't move as Malcolm approached, and for a moment Reed thought his friend had lost consciousness. Very carefully, he began to untie the knots of the rope, his hands shaking slightly as he did so.

"Trip?" he asked hesitantly, and for the first time, the man on the ground moved, slowly raising his head.

"M-Malcolm?"

Trip's face was very pale, his forehead glistening with sweat, and Malcolm noticed that his eyes weren't quite focused, as if he were running a fever. When Malcolm removed the rope, Trip's arms dropped limply to his sides and he swayed for a moment, but then managed to regain his balance. From up close, Trip's back looked even worse, as if someone had drawn a rake across his skin. Some of the cuts went rather deep, probably because Orven had hit the same spots twice, and Malcolm could only imagine how bad it must hurt.

"Come on," he said, gently taking Trip by the arm. "Let's get you inside."

Obediently, Trip tried to get to his feet, but his knees buckled under him and he couldn't get up. Malcolm did his best to help him, but it was difficult since he could only hold on to Trip's arm in order to support him. He knew that if he touched the raw, bloodied skin on Trip's back, he would only cause his friend additional pain.

Slowly, they made their way past the tables. Most of the customers didn't even look at them, except for the man and his friends, of course, who grinned when they saw Trip stumble and almost fall. Malcolm guided his friend through the verandah door into the dining room. As they passed the kitchen on their way to the stairs, Malcolm got a glance of Orven who was leaning against the counter, taking long gulps from his brandy bottle. He hadn't even bothered to get himself a glass this time.

Later, Malcolm didn't remember how they had managed to climb the stairs to the second floor. At one point, Trip lost his balance and Malcolm could only keep him from falling by grabbing him around the waist, but except for a sharp intake of breath, Trip gave no sound.

Finally, they reached their room and Malcolm helped Trip lie down on his stomach, careful not to touch the engineer's back again. He covered him up to the waist with one of the thin, gray blankets, then rolled up the other one and slid it under Trip's head as a makeshift pillow. All the while, Trip never said a word, and never even looked at Malcolm.

Reed had never felt so helpless before. Back on Enterprise, Phlox would have cleaned the wounds and given Trip something for the pain, making sure the Commander got the best medical care he could provide. The Captain would be waiting nervously next to Trip's bio bed, asking Phlox if the engineer was going to be alright, and the doctor would nod in that ever-cheerful way of his, saying that all Commander Tucker needed now was a good night's sleep.

But Malcolm didn't have any hyposprays with painkillers to inject Trip with, and he was pretty sure the people here would find the idea ridiculous - wasting medication on an alien who had only received the rightful punishment for his impudence towards a Sar'veen citizen. Except for him, no one here gave a shit whether Trip was in pain or not.

But he could clean the wounds, Malcolm decided. That was one thing he could do, waiting customers be damned. After he'd wet a cloth in the adjoining bathroom, he returned to Trip's bedside and laid a careful hand on the engineer's shoulder.

"Trip," he said, waiting for his friend to open his eyes before he continued. "I'm going to wash off that blood. If we leave it like that, the wounds are going to get infected."

Trip nodded silently. As carefully as he could, Malcolm began to dab off the drying blood, trying to wash around the open cuts and the worst of the welts. It wasn't easy, and more than once, Trip winced when the cloth made contact with his sore skin. He never said a word, though. His silence worried Malcolm, but he had no idea what to say to comfort Trip or at least get a response out of him. Trip had been whipped, and brutally so, in front of a crowd of people who had laughed and jeered at his suffering while his best friend had been forced to stand by and watch helplessly as it happened. So what was there to say?

"I'm sorry," came to Malcolm's mind, but the words sounded empty and meaningless to his ears. Of course he was sorry, everyone who had to put up with such things was sorry; the problem was only that no one here cared about it.

Finally, Malcolm was done, folded up the red-stained cloth and laid it on the floor next to the mattress.

"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked, hating himself for sounding so helpless. "Would you like a glass of water?"

Trip shook his head. "Thanks, Mal," he said hoarsely, then turned his head away so he was facing the wall. Orven's voice came from downstairs.

"Reed! I told you to hurry up! Get your ass down here now, or there'll be trouble!"

"I have to go," Malcolm said, getting to his feet. "I'll try to be back as soon as I can, okay?"

But Trip gave no answer, and Malcolm went down the stairs, only to be swatted across the face and barked at what had taken him so long.

XXX

Around midnight, the last customers finally left the restaurant, and Malcolm was what his best friend in ninth grade had always described as "absolutely bloody knackered."

After he'd finished wiping off the tables and putting up the chairs, he sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and waited for Orven to take him to their room as they had been told to do. He'd been sitting there for almost ten minutes when he heard voices from the kitchen, and realized that Orven's ex-wife had apparently decided to come by for one of her visits.

Malcolm didn't like that woman with her shrill voice and piled-up hair that smelled of perfumed styling mousse, but the good thing about her visits was that she kept the man distracted. The voices grew louder, and Malcolm decided that Orven had forgotten about locking up his slaves for the night.

Fine with me, he thought. At the risk of adding another slap across the face to today's score, he got up and walked up the stairs, too tired to listen to what the arguing voices were saying. When he had almost reached their room, however, he remembered that except for a piece of dried-up pie for breakfast Trip had not yet eaten anything today. Malcolm hesitated; he knew that with his ex-wife telling him off Orven wouldn't react kindly to any requests, but then decided to try, anyway. Surely, Trip must be starving by now.

On his way down the stairs, Malcolm heard that the tone of the discussion had grown softer, and when he approached the kitchen, he heard Orven's voice.

"... really, Varnee, I don't know what to do. First that thing with the supervisory board, and the overdue installments, of course... and now that trouble with Tucker. That guy threatening me with the police... he could've ruined me!"

The woman sighed angrily. "I'm fed up with your excuses. You said you'd pay her lessons, and she's been looking forward to it for months! Do you want me to tell her that her father can't keep his promise yet _again_, just because he's too much of a loser to keep his damn business running?"

"It's not my fault," Orven all but whined. "Varnee, you know I'm giving you all I can afford. But I really had a bad day today, so why don't we-"

"No, we can't talk about it next week, or the week after!" Varnee's voice grew louder. "You're always having a bad day, so don't give me that shit! If those slaves give you trouble, then why don't you just sell them again?"

Malcolm came to a halt, pressing himself against the wall next to the kitchen door.

"Sell them?" he heard Orven's voice. "And how do you expect me to run a restaurant with no one to wait on the guests and keep the damn place clean?"

"Well, then sell only one of them. You said he spilled the beer only because that guy was picking on his friend. If you keep only one, then there'll be less trouble and he'll be so busy doing all the work he won't have any time to spill beer over your customers' heads."

The chuckle in her voice showed clearly that she found the whole incident to be more amusing than anything else. Orven seemed to have noticed as well.

"It's not funny, Varnee! I don't need any trouble with the police, and if Tucker pulls another stunt like that, someone's going to report me sooner or later. Not to speak of the fact that I'll be losing my customers, and you know I don't have that many to begin with."

"You never listen, do you, Orven?" Varnee sounded weary. "If he gives you trouble, then _sell him_. Do you always need everything spelled out for you?"

There was a brief pause. "I don't know," Orven said then, rather quietly. "I don't think I can spare him."

She laughed, but it was a rather hollow sound. "Can't spare him? Where? In the restaurant or in your bedroom?"

"Varnee!" Orven sounded angry. "That's not fair! You know I don't-"

"Yeah, I know." She didn't seem entirely convinced, though. "But you know, Laris for example would pay quite a lot for one like him. Enough for you to pay both the installments and Renaj's lessons."

"Laris?" Orven asked, sounding uncomfortable. "But..."

"Oh, come on." Varnee's voice grew impatient again. "Don't be such a hypocrite, you've been to that place more than once. And Tucker will be better off there than he is here in this dump. No hard work, better food and everything."

Orven sighed. "I really don't know."

"Then sell Reed, if you think you can't spare Tucker." Varnee's voice had a slight sneer to it. "He's handsome and all, and Laris will make good money with him."

Orven was silent, and after a while Varnee spoke again, in a softer tone. "I understand you, Orven. I know it's not easy for you. But you have to think of Renaj, too. And me."

"I know." Orven's voice was sad, defeated. "Maybe you're right. Varnee..."

But Malcolm didn't stay to hear the rest. As quietly as he could, he walked down the dark corridor, and then hastened up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest.

As he entered the room, he found Trip sitting cross-legged on his mattress, the blanket bunched around his waist. He wasn't quite as pale as he had been before, and looked up when Malcolm came in.

"Malcolm, what's-"

"Trip." Under different circumstances Malcolm would have been glad to see Trip up and talking again, but right now he could only think of what he had just overheard. "Varnee is here. She and Orven are talking in the kitchen."

Trip raised his eyebrows. "Arguin' again?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Not this time. But she wants money from him, and..."

Suddenly he felt strangely reluctant to tell Trip about it. They didn't need that now. Trip had apparently decided to put the events of the afternoon behind him, and the last thing that would help him do so was more bad news. Even though "bad news" might not be a quite appropriate term for what Malcolm had to say.

"And?" Trip asked. His voice sounded still somewhat hoarse, and Malcolm saw that he winced every time he moved. The Lieutenant stared down at his hands.

"Orven's decided to sell one of us."

Silence ensued. "No," Trip said quietly. "Did he say so?"

Malcolm nodded. "Not in these exact words, but he's going to do it. He's just not sure yet whether it's going to be you or me."

Malcolm looked up again. In the dim light of the ceiling lamp, Trip's eyes seemed almost black.

"And... did they say..."

Malcolm nodded again. He knew what Trip was going to ask. "To someone called Laris. Sounded like he runs some kind of..."

But Malcolm couldn't bring himself to say it. The very idea had left a nauseated sickness in his heart, and it was nothing he wanted to think, let alone talk about.

Trip, however, understood. He sat completely still for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

"No," he said. "I'd rather kill him. I'd rather kill you and myself before I let this happen."

"We'll kill him." A distant part of Malcolm's mind was startled at his own matter-of-fact tone, but he quickly suppressed those feelings. "We can do it when he's drunk again. Then he's too slow to fight both of us."

Trip shook his head. "We can't risk gettin' hurt. And we probably would, even when he was drunk. Those people are a lot stronger than humans."

"I'll take that risk." Malcolm noticed that his hands were trembling, and he clenched them around the edge of the mattress. "I'd rather die than-"

"I know." Trip's voice was very quiet. "Me too. But if we kill him, it'll be a lot more difficult to get away afterwards. I bet the police is lookin' for a lot of run-away slaves, but not many who killed their owners before they escaped."

"I'd love to kill him after what he did to you."

Trip nodded. "I know what you mean. You know, when... when I was out there, and they were laughin' and tellin' him to let me have it, I wanted them dead. Even those who didn't get up to watch. And that's somethin' that scares me really bad." He looked up. "We have to get away from here, Malcolm."

Malcolm nodded.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi (danke, danke, hör ich immer gern -g-), Exploded Pen (lucky idiots ;-)...my thoughts exactly), Buggles586 (glad you're enjoying it!), Silvia (don't we all (love when Trip is hurt)? -g-), sezzyc (thank you... I feel the same way, I don't think anyone can go through all that and not be affected in some way), Tata (we'll see about Enterprise... at the moment, though, Archer thinks the boys are dead), Luna (I hope some of your questions are answered in this chapter ;-) ), The Libran Iniquity (good idea, but I don't think they'll get the chance to do so...), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (wow, thanks. I agree with you, Trip had better keep an eye on himself. About the mental and/or physical pain, I guess now it's Malcolm's turn...), LoveChilde (if you're a twisted person for enjoying to read it, then what kind of person am I for enjoying to -write- it? Well, let's not go there -g-), Rinne (thank you, sorry that chapter 6 was so short!), kittytrypsin (well, as I said, Enterprise isn't searching for them anymore... but we'll see about that) and Antares Star (we'll see about that, as well ;-) ) for reviewing.

Please read and review, I love your feedback!

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Chapter 8

For the next three days, they waited. It wasn't easy, given the constant, silent threat they were both only too aware of, even though neither of them mentioned it again after the evening Malcolm had listened at the kitchen door.

Neither did they mention the risks involved with their desperate plan. The Sar'veen did not take kindly to disobedience, and there was hardly a worse infraction a slave could commit than to run away. Orven had told them time and again about the cruel punishments that followed a recapture, of the slaves that had been put to sleep after their escape plans had failed. But they had mutely agreed not to talk about these things. There was no other way, and they might have to deal with the consequences of their decision soon enough. The Sar'veen prided themselves on the fact that more than two thirds of all run-away slaves were recaptured, and that so far all the slave revolts had been nipped in the bud. Their politicians claimed it was their tight check on internal security, but in fact there hadn't been that many revolts to begin with. K'tera's slaves came from over thirty different species, some of which were sworn enemies, and only seldom a large group of slaves trusted each other enough to start a rebellion.

Trip knew about these things, and he was aware that Malcolm did, too, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The thought of what was going to happen to them - to one of them - was ever present in his mind, and blotted out all thoughts of the dangers they were going to face once they had left the "safety" of Orven's house. The moment Malcolm had told him, he'd known that this was it. The point where he couldn't go on accepting and adapting. Back on the slave ship, he'd sworn to himself that this was a line he would not overstep, and he intended to keep that promise.

Despite the pain in his back, he would have left that very night, but unfortunately Orven remembered to lock them up after all before he went to bed. Trip had lain awake for most of the night, partly due to the pain, and partly because he couldn't stop his mind from coming up with new ideas how to get away, most of them unrealistic and born out of the desperation he felt whenever he thought of what Malcolm had told him.

Even though they had no specific plans as to when and how, they spent the days after the incident in the patio quietly and carefully preparing for what they were going to do. Orven didn't allow Trip a day of rest, even though Trip was hardly able to get up in the morning, and so the engineer used an opportune moment the next day to steal two of Orven's jackets and hide them in the bushes out in the patio, together with some food and two water bottles. Briefly, Trip thought about replicating clothes so they wouldn't have to wear their waiter uniforms when they escaped, but dismissed the idea after taking a good look at the replicator keyboard. His Sar'veen vocabulary was still very limited, and even if he had known the words, he doubted he would have been able to enter the right letters.

Malcolm managed to get a look at an electronic map of the city Orven kept in a drawer downstairs, and while he hadn't been able to memorize much of it, he'd still found out which direction to go to take the shortest way out of the city. And out of the city they had to get, even though it sounded like an impossible undertaking. They only had to wait for the right moment to put their plan into action.

That moment arrived sooner than they had dared to hope. It was evening, and Orven had decided to close the restaurant a little earlier today, to have the kitchen and dining room thoroughly cleaned. For Trip, it was nothing short of torture, having to crawl under the tables to clean the floor beneath with his back hurting like hell all the time. Thanks to Malcolm's thoroughness when he had washed and cleaned Trip's wounds, the cuts hadn't become infected, but since Trip wasn't allowed to rest they weren't healing properly either, breaking open and weeping whenever he moved too much. On the first day after the incident, his shirt had even stuck to his back when he tried to take it off in the evening, and he hadn't been able to take it off on his own. Malcolm had helped him, peeling it off as carefully as he could, but the pain had still brought tears to Trip's eyes before the Lieutenant was done.

Despite the pain in his sore back as he mopped the floor, Trip welcomed the fact that the customers had left for today. The Sar'veen man had been back with his friends, and they'd taken great pleasure in making snide remarks when Trip passed, or "accidentally" dropping their glasses so he had to pick up the shards. Trip knew better than to lose his temper again, but he'd come close to it, and was glad to see his tormentor leave before things got out of hand.

Orven spent half an hour watching listlessly as they mopped the dining room floor, from time to time raising his brandy bottle to his lips. Ever since the incident in the patio, he'd been a lot less talkative than before, and also less inclined to hit them whenever he thought they'd done something wrong. In fact, Trip had noticed that he sometimes looked at them with an expression that came close to regret, but he had no idea whether Orven was actually feeling remorse about what he was planning to do, or whether he was just regretting the loss of workforce.

After about thirty minutes Orven got up and walked across the still wet floor to get his jacket from the coatrack.

"I'm going out," he said, looking at Malcolm who was wringing out his mopping cloth. "I'll be back in about two hours."

He took two pairs of footcuffs out of a closet next to the door. Trip wasn't surprised; Orven always made them wear these when he left the house without locking them up in their room first. It seemed to be a usual practice with the Sar'veen to put their slaves in restraints, but neither he nor Malcolm had gotten used to it. They were still able to walk with the cuffs on (although one time Malcolm had stumbled and hit his forehead on the edge of a table), but the restraints still slowed you down a lot, and it was humiliating, wearing chains like dogs, or prisoners in former times back on Earth.

Still, neither of them said a word when Orven fastened the cuffs around their ankles. On his way to the door, he threw a brief glance over his shoulder.

"Finish with the dining room and then start with the kitchen. I expect you to be done when I'm back."

"Yes, sir."

Orven, however, had already disappeared through the front door, locking it as he left and ignoring their mumbled reply. Trip saw him walk past the tables and open the small gate that led to the street. He noticed that Malcolm hadn't resumed his mopping, watching with a strange expression on his face as Orven closed the gate behind him. Their eyes met, and neither of them had to say it out loud. Now was the time, and this might be the only chance they got. They waited quietly for another five minutes, in case Orven had forgotten something and came back to get it. Then they dropped their cloths into the buckets and got up.

"You still got that wire?" Malcolm asked, his forehead creasing as he looked down at the loose chain that connected the cuffs on his ankles. Trip nodded. He'd picked it up in the backyard two days ago, and had been carrying it around ever since, even though he had no idea whether it was going to be of any use at all. The cuffs were sealed with an electronic lock, rather advanced like all Sar'veen technology, and when Trip started poking about in the lock on Malcolm's right ankle, he felt ridiculous trying to open these things with nothing but a piece of old wire. Several minutes passed in tense silence, and Trip was already about to give up when there was a soft clicking noise, and the cuffs opened as easily as if they had been never locked at all.

Malcolm freed himself and with an angry gesture threw the footcuffs into a corner of the room. Now that he knew how the lock worked, Trip needed only a minute to get rid of his own restraints. Pushing them aside with his foot, he got up and followed Malcolm into the corridor.

"Do you know where he keeps his money chips?" Malcolm asked. Trip considered. They had soon learned that the Sar'veen only used electronic currency, in the form of small chips that were inserted into a padd in order to draw money from the owner's account.

"D'you think we can use them?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Better be safe than sorry. We might need them."

Trip seriously doubted that they would get the chance to spend any of that money, but then, maybe some upright citizens would be a little less eager to report them if they were offered a little something in exchange for their silence.

"In his office, I s'pose," he said. The door was locked, of course, but it took Trip only a few minutes to remove the panel and short-circuit the locking mechanism. It was the first time either of them entered the small, crammed room where Orven kept his business records, but it turned out that the man wasn't very inventive at finding places to hide his cash (or not very worried about it being stolen). The chips lay in an unlocked desk drawer, and in a business-like way, Malcolm took them out and began counting the small plastic discs.

Trip used the time to methodically search the rest of the drawers for anything useful, but found nothing.

"No weapons," he said, closing the bottom drawer. "I'd thought he'd at least have some sort of phase pistol."

"Maybe he took it with him." Malcolm looked definitely not pleased at the prospect of leaving without a weapon to protect themselves. "Bloody bastard."

Trip shrugged. "Never mind. We'll just have to do without. We've gotta hurry, though. He'll be back in no time."

Malcolm nodded, and gave the chips to Trip who put them in his pocket. They didn't waste any time straightening up; Orven would know the second he saw the damaged panel that his money was gone. Trip briefly thought of how he was going to react, taking strange pleasure in picturing the look of shock and rage on the Sar'veen's face when he found out that his money was stolen. No, not stolen, he corrected himself. Malcolm and he had been working for this man for more than two months, in exchange for nothing but some left-over food and an old mattress to sleep on. If they _were_ stealing that money, then they were only stealing it back.

The glass door leading to the verandah was locked as well, and after several futile attempts at pulling the panel off the wall Trip gave up, looking around for another way of getting to the other side of that door.

"It'll make too much noise if we smash it," Malcolm said as he scrutinized the thick glass. "The neighbors will hear us for sure."

"Yeah." Trip examined the door panel once again. "But short-circuitin' the lock is out. The panel's embedded in the wall, and I believe it has some sort of security seal."

Malcolm threw an almost frantic look around the room, his lips pressed together in a thin, colorless line. Trip felt a vague sense of panic rise at the back of his own mind, but forced himself to stay calm. A window pane and a sealed lock weren't going to stop them. They were going to get out of here.

"The first floor windows are all locked as well." He bit his lip. "Looks like we'll have to smash _somethin'_ in order to get out."

"The ashtrays," Malcolm said suddenly. "If we use an ashtray to make a small hole in the door, then we don't have to smash the whole pane at once. And then we can break away the rest of the glass."

Trip nodded. It would still make some noise, but hopefully the neighbors were busy tending to their own business and wouldn't notice. Fortunately, the patio was surrounded by several bushes, and none of the neighboring houses had a direct view of the verandah door.

He picked up an ashtray from a nearby table, and with Malcolm watching anxiously he began to rap it on the door, timidly at first, then harder when the glass proved more resistant than he had thought. Finally, a small crack appeared, and after another two or three blows the glass gave way, leaving a fist-sized hole in the door.

They wasted no time, wrapping their mopping cloths around their hands and quickly breaking away the glass around the hole. It was exhausting work for the glass was rather thick, and Trip soon felt every single cut on his back throbbing like mad. He knew that if any of them reopened and bled, the shirt was going to stick to his back again, but right now he couldn't care less. Five minutes later, they had created an opening large enough for a man to duck through.

Trip was the first one to go. Bending down to get through the hole, he grit his teeth when a searing pain shot through his back. He was almost sure that some of the wounds had cracked open again, but there was no time to check whether the wet trickle on his back was blood or merely cold sweat.

Malcolm followed him, ducking nimbly through the opening. "It's getting dark," he said quietly, throwing a brief glance at their surrounding. "He'll be back soon."

By now, the sun was starting to set, and a red glow had appeared at the horizon. Trip felt a cool breeze brush across his bare arms.

"Under that bush," he said. Malcolm knelt down, and a moment later pulled out the plastic bag with the clothes and food Trip had hidden there two days ago

Orven jackets turned out to be rather baggy, and they used the inside pockets to store away their water bottles. Briefly, Trip regretted that he hadn't had the chance to steal some of Orven's shoes as well; the worn-out sandals they'd been given provided no real protection from the cold.

He felt his heart pounding in his chest. As they approached the gate with the hoods drawn over their heads, it seemed like the noises and smells surrounding him had become more intense, stimulating his senses in a way he had not experienced before. There was fear, but it was blotted out by that feeling of hyper-sharp alertness.

The street outside was deserted, and Trip noticed that the street lamps had not been turned on yet. _Good_, he thought. If someone looked out the window, they would only see two people with hooded jackets walking down the street, their features hidden by the dim light of dusk.

Neither of them spoke as they left the patio, walking close to the wall of the adjoining apartment block. They didn't break into a run, even though it was hard not to do so. If someone saw them running down the street, they might become suspicious, after all.

It was a crazy way to escape. No drugging Orven's brandy, no climbing out of the window in the middle of the night, and no plans and disguises whatsoever. They had simply broken a door and walked out of there, down the street and past the houses where the families were now having supper, too busy to notice that their neighbor's property was about to commit the illegal act of removing itself from the premises.

They kept on walking, down the street, around a corner, and down another alleyway, lowering their heads even further when they met the occasional passer-by taking an evening stroll in the otherwise deserted backstreets. No one paid them any attention, and they never stopped, walking as fast as they could without arousing people's suspicion.

Trip's back throbbed with every step he took, and his hands which he had buried in the pockets of the jacket were trembling, but at the same time he felt strangely triumphant. No matter how desperate their attempt at escape might be, they had still made it. They had gotten away. And even though it was rather silly, the thought of Orven finding out that his slaves had run away brought a small smile to his lips.

XXX

Less than one hour later, Orven came back from his meeting with a man called Laris, discovering to his dismay that the front door was broken, and that his two young slaves were nowhere to be seen. Their restraints lay on the floor next to the smashed window, together with a piece of wire they had apparently used to open the electronic seals.

Sighing angrily, he pushed the mess aside with his foot, and went straight to the comm console. The police officer he talked to grinned a little, telling him it was only a matter of hours until the two runaways would be back with their rightful owner.

"Just bring us those DNA traces, sir," he said. "Yes, a shirt or a blanket will do perfectly fine. We'll have them on our scanners in no time."

After he had cut the connection, Orven stared at the two buckets still standing in the dining room, and suddenly felt rather weary. He should have known. They'd found out - of course they had. No matter how dumb or naive, slaves always found out about this kind of thing.

As he passed the office on his way up the stairs to get the blanket, he saw that the door panel was damaged, burnt wire ends sticking out of the wall. He only let out another small sigh, though. His money and his slaves would be back, no doubt. Tucker and Reed were from an alien species he had never seen before on K'tera, and it was going to be child's play for the police to track down their bio signs. Still, for some strange reason he didn't feel quite relieved at the idea. Orven had never considered himself a cruel person, and the thought of what he was going to have to do once they were back made him shudder.

XXX

"I think we'll be safe here for the time bein'."

Trip pointed at a small gap between two containers, just enough space for two people if they huddled close together. The ground was rather dirty just like the rest of the large storage area, but at least the container walls would protect them from the icy wind.

They'd been walking past dark factory buildings and warehouses for what seemed like hours, and in the meantime it had gotten rather cold. The jackets kept at least some of their body warmth inside, but Trip felt as though his feet were slowly turning into ice. The hour-long walk had left him tired, and his back hurt worse than ever before.

Malcolm was shivering as well, his hands buried in his arm pits in a vain attempt at regaining some warmth. He quickly crawled into the space between the containers, making room so Trip could squeeze himself into the gap as well.

"You okay?" he asked.

Trip knew that Malcolm had seen him wince when his back made contact with the hard metal, but he only shrugged.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the far hum of the traffic and allowing their weary bodies a moment's rest.

"We can't stay here for more than one or two hours," Trip said. "I'm sure they're already lookin' for us."

Malcolm nodded, and they fell silent again. Trip noticed that his senses, while still tuned for any noise closer than a hundred meters away, had tired somewhat, but sleep was out of the question right now. Sitting quietly for a while and waiting for his body to recuperate would have to suffice.

He heard Malcolm's quiet breathing next to his ear; a strangely comforting sound. Just for now, Trip tried to forget that they were alone in this gigantic city, with only a vague idea of where to go and no means to get there but their own feet. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that they were fugitives, and that every Sar'veen had the right - the duty, in fact - to hunt them down like animals and drag them off to the next police station. For now, simply sitting here was enough.

Despite his good intentions, Trip's eyes were already beginning to droop when his full bladder brought him back to reality. He sighed, trying to ignore the feeling, but after a while realized that it was no use.

"Mal..." he said quietly. The Lieutenant started, and Trip knew that Malcolm had been close to dozing off himself.

"What?"

"I've gotta go. Be back in a minute."

Malcolm only nodded, closing his eyes again and passing up what would have been a perfect chance to tease Trip about his lack of self-control and discipline, as he had done so often in the past_. Only a Yank would go and take a bloody pee while hiding from the enemy_. Sometimes, Trip found himself missing their verbal repartees and bantering, but then, he didn't know if he himself would still be able to respond to Malcolm's caustic remarks like he used to. So much had changed in a short time, and they had soon learned that in this place it was less about what you said, but what you did. Like sharing food, sharing a look when you weren't allowed to speak, or cleaning someone's wounds when he wasn't able to do so himself. Silence became a part of your life, and it wasn't like you could simply switch back to teasing and joking, even if there was no one around to tell you to shut your goddamn head.

As he crawled out from between the containers, Trip saw that the clouds were gone, leaving a clear view of the stars and K'tera's two moons. Somehow the wind felt even colder than before.

He crossed the storage area, remembering that they had passed a few bushes on their way here. It might not be a good idea to leave a puddle right in the middle of the yard.

When he was done, he hurried back to the containers, wishing to get away from the biting wind. And then stood, frozen. Malcolm was gone.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi (stimmt (dass du das letzte Kapitel sehr verbessert hast) ), Reedie (no need to be nervous... I'm just going to torture him a little -eg-), Ocean (we'll see what has happened to Malcolm...), Luna (yeah, what would he do? On the other hand, I think everybody would be frightened about being forced into prostitution), highonscifi (yes, I do ;-)!!!), stage manager (I wouldn't -g-), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (sorry about the cliffhanger ;-)!!! I just couldn't resist! Es tut mir Leid! Well, as I said, we'll see about Malcolm...), Rinne (glad you liked it!), KaliedescopeCat (no, I don't think it's going to get better yet...), Antares Star (I'm really sorry about the cliffhanger... or not ;-)?), kittytrypsin (I know what you mean. Complicated plans have a tendency to fail...), Tata (I don't think Malcolm will be up to bantering with Trip any time soon -EG-. Sorry about the cliffhanger ;-)), CordeliaBlack (glad to know you're enjoying it!), Maraschino (thank you!) and Eyes on Tactical (thank you! Give your Reed action figure a pat from me ;-). It's great to hear you're enjoying the story!) for reviewing.

And now, finally... on with Chapter 9! Please read and review!

Chapter 9

Trip spent more than an hour searching, checking every corner and looking behind every container, quietly calling Malcolm's name again and again. He knew what he was doing was of no use - there was no reason at all for Malcolm to have left their hiding place, and this kind of nasty practical joke wasn't the sort of thing Malcolm would do. Malcolm was as stubborn as hell and could be a real pain in the ass at times, but he was not - and had never been - cruel.

After a while, reality began to sink in. Someone had taken Malcolm away, and they had done it so quickly and quietly that Trip had never even heard a sound. He wondered why Malcolm hadn't at least screamed, or put up a fight, and his throat closed up at the thought that maybe the Lieutenant had never gotten the chance to do so. Maybe they had killed him right away. Trip knew he should leave, get away from here as far as possible before they caught him as well. But he couldn't do so. His mind was numb, and after an hour of fruitless searching he simply sat down on the same spot between the two containers, and cried.

It was a strange feeling, allowing the tears to flow freely and sobbing like a small child would do. But he didn't even find it in him to feel ashamed. He had never felt such despair. During all the time in the slave ship's cargo hold, at the auction or even when Orven had whipped him, Trip had always kept something like a grip on himself, forcing himself to do what he thought would be best for himself and Malcolm. Now, however, he couldn't. He had no idea what to do, had no idea what had happened, and no means to find out.

For a very brief moment, Trip thought about going back to Orven, just to see if Malcolm had been caught and taken back. But then he dismissed the thought. He would not go back to that place, never. And if the police had actually found Malcolm in his hiding place, then they wouldn't have simply grabbed him and left. They would have searched the area, and very likely found Trip as well. No, Malcolm hadn't been captured by the police. He was gone, and Trip had no idea where his friend was now, whether he was still alive, after all.

After a while, the tears subsided. Trip felt cold, drained of all emotions, and in a way he welcomed the sensation. This must be how hopelessness felt, but at least it allowed you to think clearly. He was going to have to do something. He was going to have to bring his thoughts into order, and decide what to do next.

Staying here and waiting, the first thing that came to his mind, was not an option the longer he thought about it. It was clear by now that whoever had caught Malcolm was not coming back, and if for any reason Malcolm had left of his own free will, then he wasn't going to come back either. Going back to Orven, the second possibility, was out of the question. The police hadn't captured Malcolm, that much was clear, and what was he going to say? _"Sorry for running away, sir, and by the way, after we've got that whipping-and-branding thing done, could you help me look for my friend? That is, if you're not going to put me to sleep first, of course."_

The longer he thought about it, it seemed that there was only one possibility left. He hated it, and hated himself for not coming up with another plan, but it was the only thing he could think of. He had to go on. Go on and try to leave this city, find someone who would help him and then come back for Malcolm. If there was any way of doing so.

Trip sat in his hiding place for another one or two hours, weary in body and soul. Snatches of "What if" and "If I'd only" sometimes passed his mind, but he didn't have the strength left to focus on them. It seemed like the tears he had shed had rid him of all feelings he'd still had left, and all he could do was carry through what they had begun, one way or another.

Finally, he realized that it was only a few hours until the sun would rise, and that he was going to have to find another, better hiding place where he could stay during the daytime. Malcolm and he had agreed that it was safer to travel at night and hide during the day, and that was what he was going to do.

Slowly, he got up, feeling a sharp pain in his back as he straightened up. It seemed the cuts had reopened and bled, after all, but it didn't matter. He wasn't going to be taking off his shirt in the near future, anyway. Trip pulled out the water bottle, his hands trembling as he tried to open the screw cap. It wasn't easy to do so since his fingers were stiff with cold, but finally he managed, and took a big sip. Briefly, he considered eating some of the bread before he left, but then dismissed the thought. There was no way he could keep anything down, and why waste his supplies when he didn't need to? He would be rummaging through garbage cans soon enough.

He made his way across the storage area, in direction of the bushes where he had relieved himself earlier. More than once, his foot got caught in some piece of discarded wrapping material and he stumbled, but he simply continued his way, doggedly, without looking up. Trip passed the huge factory building, a detached part of his mind wondering at the fact that it had no windows at all. None of the buildings here seemed to have windows. It was like walking among gigantic blocks of concrete, one after the other, a never-ending row. Despite the distant hum of traffic a strange silence hung between these gray buildings, a silence that seemed to reject any living being that dared to move, walk and breathe in this place. Trip never noticed. He walked on and on, never looking up and never stopping to listen.

And almost forgot to breathe with shock when someone grabbed his arm from behind.

"We have to get you away from here, quick!"

Trip yanked his arm free, and broke into a run, never looking back at whoever had spoken. No, he thought, no you won't get me not this time no-

The sounds of steps pursuing him were drawing closer, and Trip risked a quick look back, but in the darkness he only saw two dark, blurred figures. One of them was calling something, but he didn't listen, running like he had never run in his life. His blood was pounding in his ears, and the cold brought the water to his eyes, making it impossible for him to see were he was going. His pursuers were getting closer, and now Trip could hear what they - she - was calling.

"... not going to hurt you! Hey, stop!"

He saw the wooden crate only a split-second before his foot got caught again, and he stumbled. Pain lanced through his left ankle as he fell, but Trip didn't waste any time, trying to scramble back to his feet even though he knew that it was too late.

"Wait!" The voice came from somewhere above, and Trip instinctively raised a hand when he noticed that his pursuers had come to halt next to him. The blow he'd been expecting didn't come, though.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

The smaller one of the two figures crouched down next to him, and in the light of the street lamps, Trip got a glimpse of her face. And involuntarily he startled. The woman was definitely not Sar'veen; in fact she didn't belong to any species he was familiar with. Her skin was a bluish green, almost turquoise, and in the dark her lips looked almost black. Her hair was hidden, the hood of her jacket covering almost all of it except for a few unruly strands. It wasn't the green skin, however, nor the hair that caught his attention when he looked at her. It was the scars; thin white lines that covered her forehead, formed crisscross patterns on her cheeks and deformed what must have been perfectly curved lips once. She looked as if a madman had taken a knife to her face, intending to destroy as much of it as possible.

At first, he simply sat and stared at her, and only when she repeated her question did he understand the meaning of the words.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

Trip tried to move his left foot, and a sharp pain shot up his leg. "My ankle," he said. The woman nodded, and, in a business-like way, began to palpate his foot. It hurt, and Trip grit his teeth not to make a sound. After a while she let go of him.

"It's not broken," she said. "You think you can walk?"

Trip nodded. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm Chi'an," she said. "Sepek, help me get him to his feet."

The second figure stepped closer, and Trip saw that he was a young Vulcan, with a round face and light brown eyes.

"You've run away, haven't you?" Chi'an asked, wrapping an arm around Trip's waist for support. He hissed with pain as she touched his sore back, and she let go at once, a look of both understanding and anger crossing her scarred features. "Sorry."

"Who are you?" Trip repeated, still not convinced that this wasn't some sort of trick. These people were not Sar'veen, but he had no idea what they would be doing here or why they would help him. Or if they were actually helping him. Part of him still expected them to call the police any moment.

"We're fugitives, just like you," the scarfaced woman said. "And you need to get away from here."

"My friend," Trip said. "I've lost him. We were hidin' back there in the storage area of that factory..."

"Let me guess." The lines around Chi'an's mouth had hardened. "You were away for only a few minutes and when you came back he was gone."

"How do you know?" Trip had trouble keeping his voice calm. "Do you know what happened to him?"

The young Vulcan opened his mouth, but Chi'an cut him off with a sharp gesture. "We'll talk later. First we have to get you away from here. It's not safe."

"No." Trip freed his arm from their supporting grip. "I'm not goin' anywhere if you don't tell me what you know. Did the police get him?"

"Listen." The woman grabbed his arm again, and her voice was harsh and angry. "There's nothing you can do for him right now. But if you stay here, you'll disappear as well. It's your choice."

Trip stared at her, his mind racing. He didn't know her, he had no reason to trust her and he had no guarantee that she wasn't going to hand him over to a bunch of waiting police officers only a few minutes from now. In fact, she didn't look like someone you would like to trust. Not with that mad, haunted expression in her eyes. But whoever these people were, they were the first ones who seemed, for a reason yet unknown to him, inclined to help him. And they knew something about Malcolm.

He nodded slowly. "Alright."

Chi'an took his right arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, then jerked her chin at Sepek, gesturing for him to grab hold of Trip's other arm.

"You okay?" she asked. Trip nodded. His ankle still sent a sharp pain through his leg whenever he put weight on it, but he was able to walk, leaning on Chi'an and the Vulcan for support.

Slowly, they made their way past another factory building, then turned to the left, now walking down a dimly lit alleyway.

"Where are we goin'?" Trip asked. He felt uncomfortable, being all but carried by two strangers he had never seen before, and there was still the part of his mind that screamed at him to break free, to run away as long as he was still able to do so.

"We've hidden our flitter behind that building," Sepek said, pointing at the huge windowless block at the end of the alleyway. It was the first time he had spoken at all. Trip threw him a glance from the corner of his eye and saw that he was indeed very young, twenty-five at the most. His round face was beardless, and there was something childlike to his soft features.

"This way," Chi'an interrupted his thoughts.

There was a narrow passage leading away from the alleyway, a small gap between the factory building and the adjoining warehouse. The passage was not wide enough for three people to walk side by side, and so Chi'an led the way, while Sepek supported Trip as easily as if he were carrying a small child.

The passage ended in a small backyard, not unlike the one behind Orven's restaurant. In one corner of the yard Trip saw a dark bulky shadow, and a moment later recognized a flitter. The design was somewhat similar to Orven's shuttle, except for the fact that this flitter was even larger, and probably faster than the old craft in which Malcolm and he had been brought to this planet.

Chi'an palmed a security panel next to the flitter's hatch, and the door slid aside. Trip noticed that unlike the Starfleet shuttles this hatch had no handle, and could be opened only by pressing the button next to the door.

"Come on," the woman said quietly, took his arm and with Sepek's help helped him climb inside. Unlike Orven's shuttle, this vessel had several seats right behind the pilot chair, and the shuttle's interior was clean, forming a sharp contrast to the stains of grease and dirt on the floor of Orven's flitter. Sepek closed the hatch, then guided Trip over to one of the seats and helped him sit down.

"Does your foot hurt?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in what seemed to be genuine concern. Trip shook his head. "No," he said. "It's okay."

"Lanja can take a look at it later," Chi'an called from the front seat. She didn't even look at the helm while working the controls, half-turning around in her chair. "For the moment just try to keep it still."

Sepek had taken a seat next to him, and a moment later the flitter took off, as smoothly and silently as if it weren't moving at all. The only indication that they were indeed gaining height was the front window; Trip saw the dark yard growing smaller, and soon the huge warehouse was only a square the size of his palm. He felt a lump build in his throat at the thought of leaving Malcolm behind - assuming, of course, the Lieutenant was still somewhere down there. All of this was happening so fast, and Trip found himself feeling like he had been thrown into some kind of nightmare, events racing past before his eyes too fast for him to stop or change them. His eyes were swollen and burning, partly from crying and partly because he hadn't slept at all for almost twenty-four hours, and very briefly, Trip considered closing them and allowing himself to succumb to oblivion, if only for a few minutes.

A movement in the front caught his attention. After switching the helm to autopilot, Chi'an left the front seat, and came to sit on the chair next to him. The faint glow of the shuttle's ceiling lamps emphasized the deep scars on her face, and again, Trip almost startled when she turned her head to look at him. She had lowered her hood, and now he saw that she had long, black hair, falling on her shoulders in a wild tangle of locks. At some time in the past, he realized, Chi'an must have been a beautiful woman.

"What's your name?" she asked, and he quickly lowered his gaze, realizing that he had been staring.

"Tucker," he said. "I'm Charles Tucker."

"I've never seen your species before," Sepek said. Trip stared at him.

"You've never seen a human before? But the Vulcans are our allies. How-"

"Sepek was born here on K'tera," Chi'an interrupted quietly. "He's only half Vulcan. His father was Sar'veen."

Trip looked at the young man, and for the first time noticed a certain gray tinge to his skin, the only feature that deviated from his otherwise entirely Vulcan appearance. Sepek stared down at his hands, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. Chi'an seemed to have noticed as well, and continued quickly.

"You said you lost your friend. Did you escape together?"

"Yes," Trip said, turning his eyes away and looking out the front window. About fifty meters below he could make out the dark shapes of houses, and on the horizon he saw a thin yellow line that hadn't been there only five minutes ago. The sun was rising. "We ran away from a man called Orven. He has a restaurant somewhere near the industrial area. We..."

Suddenly, he couldn't go on. The memories of the last days, the incident in the patio, the panic in Malcolm's eyes when he'd found out about Orven's decision, and their desperate, hasty escape came back to him, and he found himself unable to speak.

"It's alright," Chi'an said, laying her hand on his. "You don't have to tell us now. You're safe with us for the time being."

Trip raised his eyes. "Where are we goin'?"

"To a safe place," Chi'an said. "There's more of us, about two dozens. Don't worry, they won't find you there."

"Are you some sort of... secret organization?" Trip asked, for want of a better word.

Chi'an didn't smile. "You could call us that," she said. "Some of us like to call themselves resistance fighters. But I'd say we're just a group of people sticking together because we have nowhere else to go."

"And you're all run-away slaves?" he asked.

"Yes," Chi'an said. "Well, except for Rish." There was the faintest touch of humor in her eyes as she exchanged a glance with Sepek.

"Rish is the first baby that was born in our camp," Sepek explained, and to Trip's surprise he saw a smile play about the young Vulcan's lips. "She's six months old."

Trip nodded. He still had no idea whether these people were telling the truth, but for some reason felt inclined to believe them. Still, it almost sounded to good to be true, their story about a camp of fugitives successfully hiding from the authorities and helping each other survive. And he definitely needed help. _Malcolm_ needed help.

"You said you know somethin' about my friend," he said, swallowing hard. "Do you know if they got him? The police, I mean?"

Chi'an looked down at her hands, but he didn't miss the expression in her eyes before she lowered her gaze.

"No," she said quietly. "Not the police."

"You said that place wasn't safe," Trip urged. "The place where you found me. Why?"

Chi'an raised her eyes again. "Why don't we talk about this later? Back in the camp you can rest and have Lanja take a look at your foot, and then-"

"No," Trip said, angrily. "I want to know why that place isn't safe. Do you know if... if he got killed?"

"He's alive," Chi'an said. Trip noticed that Sepek was studying the armrest of his seat with intent concentration, avoiding to meet his eyes. "But hopefully not for long."

Trip stared at her. "What makes you say that?"

"Do you remember the huge factory building we passed on our way to the flitter?"

Trip nodded, mutely.

"It belongs to a large pharmaceutical group. The biggest on K'tera. Most of the factory buildings out there belong to that group in some way or another. And some of them are... laboratories. Testing facilities."

"What are you sayin'?"

This time, Chi'an did not avert her gaze. "We know for a fact that a lot of people have disappeared in that area. Run-away slaves, I mean. One of our own people..." She briefly closed her eyes. "They're abducted. By the people who run the laboratories. They use them for experiments, to test the substances they're producing. It's a safe thing; the police won't give them any trouble, even though they know what's going on. But why should they care? A few aliens less that have to be brought back to their owners."

Something cold settled in his chest. "How... how do you know?"

"We found one of them. In the garbage dump behind a warehouse. They'd left him there because they thought he was dead... he lived for three days after we'd brought him back to the camp. Screamed with pain for three days and three nights, then the substances he'd been injected with finally killed him. That was two years ago..."

Trip didn't hear the rest. He sat, unable to move, and never said a word even as Chi'an reached out and laid a gentle hand on his arm.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: R

AN: At the request of one of the readers, this chapter is being posted a little earlier than planned...

Anyway, thanks to LoveChilde (life isn't fair ;-)... and neither is fanfiction), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (okay, I'm sorry g-... no more hints this time), Gabi (hähä, natürlich tut es mir nicht Leid... aber nicht weiterverraten ;-) ), Luna (read and find out...), Tata (no international law that I know of... or I guess I'd be in trouble), Reedie (don't worry, no more creepy than the rest of us ;-) ), stage manager (yes I am!! -g-), Rinne (glad you do, or again, I guess I'd be in trouble), AquaSox (thank you so much, that's a great compliment), kittytrypsin (maybe you're right, but then again, he's really frightened and despairing at the time), buggles586 (glad you're enjoying it!), highonscifi (I guess Malcolm's in trouble now ;-)...), KaliedescopeCat (I'll have to agree with you -g-), Antares Star (Me? Evil? -g-... hmmm, let's just say, we'll see about Trip), CordeliaBlack (I wasn't planning to update until some time tomorrow, but since you're going away for the weekend... no fair, I want to go to Florida, too. Instead I'm stuck here in stupid old Germany ;-) ), Eyes on Tactical (your action figure is gonna need a lot of cuddling... -g-) and Laura B (thank you!) for reviewing.

Phew, what a long Author's note... anyway. Please read and review!

------------------

Chapter 10

Image: He sits, his knees drawn to his chest, waiting for Trip to come back. It is dark, and the cold is creeping into his arms and legs, wearing him out. He closes his eyes. He is so tired. There is a noise, and he raises his head again, listening. Steps, very quiet steps approaching the containers. A bright light shining into his eyes. He jumps up. There is a short, sharp pain. And then - nothing.

Malcolm opened his eyes. It was dark here as well, dark and cold. Cold enough to make him shiver all over. He curled up as tightly as he could, and when his hands touched his bare chest, he noticed that he wasn't wearing any clothes. For a moment he lay completely still, trying to understand how he had come to be here, lying naked on the floor of this dark, cold place.

Image: Hands grabbing him. Voices. His eyes are closed, and for some reason he can't force them open. There is a smell, a smell he doesn't like, but before he can distinguish what it is he is plunged back into darkness.

The cold stirred him back into reality. The tiled floor he was lying on was icy, and after several attempts Malcolm managed to bring himself into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his knees. His head was spinning, and it felt like his tongue was swollen, seeming at least twice its normal size. It was a nauseating sensation, and Malcolm swallowed hard, fighting back the bile that was rising in his throat. What was this place?

Tiles. The floor beneath was covered with tiles, which meant that he was somewhere inside. How had he come to be here?

Malcolm tried to hold his hands still, stop their trembling by sheer force of will, and _think_. He needed to stay calm, stay awake and think. He needed a system.

Tactical aspects. He could think of the tactical aspects. That was something his brain could do without too much effort, like a computer running a routine analysis.

Surroundings - unknown. He wasn't even able to see his own hands, although his eyes were rapidly becoming used to the dark. The room stank. And it was cold, bloody freezing cold in here.

Enemy - unknown as well. He had been rendered unconscious and taken away from their hiding place, but he did not know by whom. He didn't even know if they had caught Trip as well.

Procedure - no suggestions available. Not enough data.

Malcolm's hands started trembling again, and this time he could not help it. He wanted to call out for Trip, but his swollen tongue refused to cooperate, and all that came out was a hoarse croak. He'd been drugged, that much was clear, but he did not understand why. If the police had caught him, then why would they put him in here, take away his clothes and give him something to make him tremble all over? Was it some sort of punishment? Orven had told them about the things that were done to recaptured slaves, but he had never mentioned this. And where was Trip? Had they captured him as well, maybe locked him into another place like this?

Tactical analysis was failing, and panic was edging closer. Malcolm pressed a fist against his mouth, biting down hard to stop himself from screaming. The taste of his own blood had a strangely calming effect, and he closed his eyes again, forcing himself to breathe slowly and evenly. Despite the dark, this was _not_ some sort of tomb, and he had not been buried alive. There was no use in burying him alive, it was a waste of workforce, and the Sar'veen never wasted anything they could still use to their profit. Someone had put him in here, and they were going to get him out again. Soon.

In the meantime, his eyes had gotten used to the dark, and Malcolm saw that he was indeed not in a tomb, but in a room. A very small room, three by three meters at the most, floor, walls and ceiling covered with the same, smooth material. On one of its four sides, the room was open, and as he squinted harder, Malcolm was able to make out long, thin shapes in the dark. Bars. He was in a barred cell, it seemed, even though at this distance he could not make out what was behind the bars. Malcolm began to pull himself towards the opening, not trusting himself to walk or even crawl. The tiles under his hands felt like ice. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter he inched forward, and when he had finally reached the bars, his whole body was shaking, his stomach clenching with nausea. Malcolm pressed his forehead against the cold iron bars and waited for the dizzy feeling to subside. There seemed to be some sort of corridor outside, and on the other side he saw more cells, also equipped with bars. Malcolm sat very still, listening, and suddenly heard a very faint noise, like someone gasping for air.

Again, he tried to speak - was it Trip? Was Trip somewhere in this dark place? - but no sound came out. Again, there was that noise, something between a sigh and a sob, and all of a sudden the lights went on.

For a moment he only saw a glaring whiteness. He squinted to protect his eyes from the sudden onslaught of light, and instinctively scrambled away from the bars, retreating further into his cell. There were steps, voices, and again, panic flared up inside him. Slowly, his eyes were adjusting to the light, and Malcolm got a brief glimpse of the corridor and the barred cell opposite to his. Then two people came to a halt in front of the cell door, blocking his view. Malcolm saw that they were Sar'veen, a man and a woman clad in pale yellow coveralls. The man was holding a hypospray in his hand. Malcolm tried to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn't support him, and he fell down hard on tiled floor. For a moment, his surroundings faded, and all he was aware of was the sound of the cell door being opened.

"Give me the hypo." The woman's voice. Malcolm tried to move away, but a gloved hand stopped him, gripping his arm. The woman's face was devoid of any expression except mild irritation as she briefly looked him up and down.

"Into the neck," she said. The man grabbed his hair, roughly pushing his head aside. She brought the hypo to his neck, but a second before the substance was injected into his vein, Malcolm managed to squirm away. There was a small hiss as the hypo emptied itself into the air.

"Dammit!" The man's grip on his hair tightened, and he slammed Malcolm's head against the floor tiles, hard enough to make the world go black for a moment. "That little bastard."

"Be careful, will you? You'll kill him."

Through a haze, Malcolm saw the woman adjust the hypospray, reloading it. No, he wanted to scream, get that thing away from me, but he could only watch as the hand holding the hypo descended again. The man held his head down on the floor, and Malcolm felt the cold tiles press against his cheek. A brief stinging sensation was all he felt as they injected him with the substance, then the Sar'veen let go of his hair.

"Alright. We'll check on him again tomorrow."

They left without looking back, and for a few minutes Malcolm simply lay on the floor, eyes closed and heart pounding. His head hurt, and he felt something warm and sticky spread where his forehead had hit the floor. He seemed to be bleeding, but didn't have the strength left to raise a hand and check.

The trembling started again, worse this time. His whole body was shaking, and it felt as if his arms and legs were filled with tiny glass shards that pricked his skin from the inside. Malcolm gave a low moan, clenching his hands to fists, but even this small movement sent waves of pain through his body. He could practically feel the substance burning in his veins, mingling with his blood and setting his nerve endings on fire. He couldn't fight it, and after a while he stopped trying, willingly succumbing to the darkness that engulfed him.

XXX

Image: Space.

He's surrounded by stars, but for once, he doesn't actually pay any attention to them. The pain is getting worse, and every time he looks at his leg, his stomach gives a small lurch. It's disconcerting to see that metal spike buried in the material of his suit, to know that it has gone through the flesh and muscles beneath like a knife through raw meat. He jokes about it, forces a smile - the Captain mustn't notice. He's an officer, trained to handle worse situations than this. No, the Captain mustn't notice that Malcolm Reed is actually afraid.

But Archer is making things difficult. Again. Can't he see that this isn't easy for Malcolm either, that he is only making things worse by displaying an inappropriate concern for the life of one crewman?

"As much as I appreciate all your efforts, sir, you have to detach the hull plating. It's the only option."

He's not listening. Of course not. Malcolm is angry, and at the same time Archer's stubbornness touches something within him. Archer is fighting for his life. Refuses to leave him behind. Him, Malcolm Reed, the man with no interests beside his work and no friends. Why does he consider it worth the effort?

It surprises him how easy it is to pull out the air tube. A slight tug suffices to detach it from the container. Must note it down for the next report. Design flaw in Starfleet EV suits. A small smile crosses his face before the stars begin to fade.

"If I were the kind of captain you think, I'd bust your ass back to crewman."

Archer's face is close to his, an exasperated frown creasing the Captain's forehead. Malcolm draws in air, and at the same time realizes what the Captain has done. And again, it touches him somewhere deep down, even though his answer is as dry and acid as everyone would expect of him.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but if you were that kind of captain, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Something changes in Archer's face. It's a very subtle change, but Malcolm notices immediately. The worry in the Captain's eyes has disappeared, to be replaced by an angry and at the same time malicious glitter. It almost looks as if Archer is pleased at something.

"You know, Malcolm," he says slowly, and his voice has changed as well. It is hard now, hard and nasty, a humorless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know, I guess you're right. We wouldn't. And maybe that would be just as well. It's not like I -care-. And to be quite honest - it'll be a pleasure. You little hypocritical shit."

Archer reaches out, and a small tug at the back of his suit tells Malcolm that the Captain has just pulled out the air tube once again.

XXX

Image: The bridge.

"This is all a big joke to you!"

Malcolm is as angry as he can ever remember being. His cheeks are flushed, and the Commander's irritated answer - "Give it a rest!" - pushes him close to losing his temper with the man.

"This isn't a bloody pleasure cruise! Without proper discipline on this ship, this mission is doomed!"

Tucker turns around, his face twisted in anger. It gives Malcolm a strange satisfaction to see this.

"Why don't you go play soldier somewhere else?" Tucker snarls. The remark hurts, more than Malcolm would ever admit. He opens his mouth, about to say the first thing that comes to his mind, but he never gets the chance. Tucker pushes him, hard, and he falls, his elbow making painful contact with the deck plating.

"It's about time, you know! And I'm not the only one who'd be glad to see you leave!"

The Captain steps up next to the Commander, his eyes cold and disgusted as he looks down at Malcolm.

"If you're that unhappy with the way I run this ship, then why are you still bothering us with your presence? Do you know that I get dozens of complaints every week, of people who are fed up with your arrogant attitude, Malcolm? You'd be doing us and your staff a favor if you left this ship as soon as possible."

Malcolm can't move, stunned by the open hate in the voices of his crewmates. "Captain..."

"I have to agree with the Captain and the Commander, Lieutenant." T'Pol has stepped closer as well, her eyebrows raised in icy disdain. "Working with you has proven a constant challenge to both my control and my patience. And it is obvious even to me that none of the crew likes having you around. To put it mildly."

"Actually, Cap'n, why don't we give our esteemed Lieutenant a hand if he is that eager to get away from here?" Tucker smiles coldly, drawing a phaser. Malcolm hadn't even noticed he was wearing one. The Captain and T'Pol simply stand with their arms crossed, not intervening as Tucker raises the weapon. "I've been wantin' to do this for a long time."

XXX

Image: The messhall.

Malcolm hardly notices the familiar background noise of quiet voices and cutlery softly scraping on plates. He is intent on his padd, forking food into his mouth without taking his eyes off the small display. The report needs to be finished by tomorrow, and he is only half-way through it.

"One of these nights, I should fix something myself."

Hoshi clears her throat, and Malcolm looks up, startled. The communications officer seems to be unusually eager to engage him in conversation tonight, smiling and chatting non-stop ever since she has set down her tray next to his.

"I'm sorry?" Malcolm asks, slightly abashed that he hasn't heard a word she said. Her friendly smile never wavers.

"You'd love my enchiladas."

He is at a loss. "Enchiladas?"

"Or if you don't like them I can fix something else." She cocks her head in a characteristical manner, raising her eyebrows at him. "What's your favorite food?"

His favorite food? Malcolm feels himself getting flustered, and involuntarily tightens his grip on the fork.

"I... I appreciate the offer, but it really isn't necessary."

Hoshi doesn't seem willing to give up that easily. "Aren't you getting a little tired of having to eat whatever Chef happens to serve?"

Why would she be that obsessed with his food all of a sudden? Though Hoshi doesn't actually seem interested in food. She is trying hard not to sound suggestive, but there is an urgency to her voice that doesn't quite agree with her "casual chatting." Malcolm knows he is going to blush, and hates the fact that there is nothing he can do about it.

"He's a... a fine cook," he stammers, and sure enough feels the heat rise in his cheeks. It's so bloody embarrassing. Other guys never get hot and flustered, so why does he blush like a school girl every time he talks to a woman? A very pretty woman, by the way.

"Oh, he's terrific." Hoshi is in perfect control of the blood flow in her cheeks, and if anything she sounds more amused than embarrassed. "It's just that dinner in the messhall can lack a certain... personal touch." And then, in a lower voice. "I got a hotplate in my quarters."

Okay, that was it. Now he has to react, or she will think he's either weird or very slow on the uptake. Briefly, Malcolm thinks of what Trip would say - "You make us dinner, Hosh, and let me take care of the -dessert-", or something similarly inane, accompanied by that boyish grin that seemed to send females of every species reeling. Hoshi would laugh, maybe smack his arm in mock outrage, not in the least offended because Trip was just - Trip. Coming from him, however, Malcolm knows the line would sound more horny than anything else. And besides, he is not Trip Tucker. Never will be, either.

"That's very flattering, and..." And what? And I'd love to take you up on that offer? And I think it could be fun? "... I just think it might be a little... awkward." She gives him a strange look. "Serving on the same ship," he adds - not for means of explanation, just because he feels the need to say something.

Hoshi is still staring at him, and slowly, very slowly, a grin begins to spread on her face.

"I knew it," she says quietly, and then louder, "I knew you would think I was implying..."

She laughs, a sharp, nasty sound, and suddenly turns around in her chair, calling out to Liz Cutler and several female ensigns who are seated at a nearby table.

"See, I told you he would! Do you believe me now?"

The women break into laughter. It is clear that they have been watching the entire time, and know exactly what is going on.

"You're so pathetic, Malcolm." Hoshi turns back to him, her grin changing into a sneer. "Did you really think I was interested? You need it that badly? Well, in that case you'll just have to keep staring at the Subcommander's bum, because no woman who has any sense left would let you come near her."

Malcolm has no idea what is going on here. He only knows that he needs to get out of here, get away as quickly as possible. He doesn't even bother to put away his dishes, gets up and walks away as fast as he can without running.

"Just look at him! What an idiot!"

Malcolm's face is burning, and the way to the door seems endless. All he can think is get away from here, just get away. With shaking hands, he presses the door panel. On leaving the room, the last thing he hears is the women's near-hysterical laughter, and Hoshi's voice: "Did you see his face? He actually fell for it! He thought I... God, what a loser."

XXX

Image: The shuttlepod.

Malcolm clenches his fingers around the glass to stop his hands from shaking. The bourbon helps a little, but it isn't only the cold that makes his hands tremble. He doesn't dare look at Trip. He has never talked like that to a friend before - hell, he has never talked like that to -anyone- before. And he is afraid he might lose the courage to do so if he actually looks at him, reminding himself that there is someone listening to what he is saying.

"I lost nearly everyone I cared about on that ship. All those girls I talked about, Rachel, Deborah, Caitlin... none of them worked out because I could never get really close to them." Not for want of trying, though. Or maybe he had just thought he was trying, at the time. "Never got very close to my family either, for that matter. Not that it's any business of yours." He takes a sip. The bitter liquid tastes cold in his mouth. "But with the crew of the Enterprise, it was different. I was really starting to feel... comfortable with them. And now the only one that's left thinks I'm the bloody angel of death."

He lets out a short laugh that doesn't sound like a laugh at all. Hell, he's almost crying now. Must be the alcohol, though. Or the cold. Malcolm Reed? Cry in front of a superior officer? Bloody ridiculous.

"Why're you tellin' me this, Malcolm?"

Malcolm looks up. Trip is staring at him, still perched on the bench next to the burning candle.

"I don't know. Maybe..."

"D'you think I don't know what you're doin' here?" Trip gets up, his mouth hardening. "You know, that's what I really hate about you. You're so full of self-pity you never notice it's your own damn fault you've never gotten close to anyone. You only ever think of yourself, feel sorry for yourself. Ever thought that you might just not be the person people want to get close to? I wouldn't want to. And I don't want to spend the last damn hours of my life listenin' to your whinin'. Oh, and as for your feelin' comfortable, don't worry, it sure doesn't show. "

He turns around. "You know, in a way it makes sense that you want to die. In a way, it really starts to make sense. I mean... why shouldn't you?"

XXX

Malcolm jerked awake, sweating and shaking. Faces, voices and images were still swirling in his mind, and he could hear them over and over again, yelling, jeering, laughing. The drugs, a distant part of his mind tried to remind him, it's the drugs.

But Malcolm didn't know about any drugs. All he could think of were those voices and sneering faces, and as he lay in the dark, his cheek pressed against the cold floor, he still saw Trip's eyes as he raised the weapon to kill him.

He didn't know how much time had passed when the lights went on again. The approaching steps, the voices meant nothing to him, didn't pose a threat in the face of what had just happened.

The cell door opened, but Malcolm didn't move. He didn't even raise his head.

Someone crouched down next to him, and he heard the man's disgusted voice.

"What a mess. We'll have to clean him up before we take him to the lab."

"His urine's stained with blood. Note that down. It's an unusual reaction, but then, we've never had that species before. Wait..."

A hand grabbed his shoulder, turning him around. Malcolm kept staring straight ahead, and didn't resist when the woman pulled up his eyelid with her gloved fingers.

"Okay, the symptoms... dilated pupils, abnormal transpiration, muscle tremors... everything's normal except for the blood in his urine. We'll have to do a more thorough check on that one."

"Now?" The man held up a hypo. "We could inject him with fifteen milligrams this time, and see if the symptoms intensify."

"Later." The woman got up. "Call the techs and tell them to take him to Lab Room Two. I want to run a few tests before we inject him with anything else. And have them clean him up first. He stinks."

They left after that. Malcolm stayed where he was, staring blankly at the ceiling, and when five minutes later the lab techs came to get him, he had lost consciousness again.

XXX

Light. A white light was shining into his eyes, seeming to come from all sides. He couldn't move, and couldn't escape the hands that were touching him. There were voices, coming and going, and blurred shapes that might have been faces. Malcolm didn't know. He was too terrified to move, frozen in the white light.

They strapped him down, and he felt the restraints cut into his skin even though he never tried to struggle. It was cold, so very cold, and their hands seemed to consist of liquid ice as they touched him. They began to palpate his stomach, applied pressure to his abdomen until he whimpered with pain. Satisfied that they had found the cause of the strange bleeding, they increased the pressure, not stopping until tears were running down his face and he was coughing up blood. He almost suffocated then, until one of the techs loosened the strap on his forehead and turned his head so the blood could flow off on to the table and wouldn't run back down his throat.

"Major irritation of the gastric wall," the woman said to a man who was taking notes on a padd.

By now he was shaking all over, and when they began testing a series of substances on his skin, the trembling got so hard that two of the techs had to hold him down so none of the samples were spilled. Malcolm hardly noticed the searing pain as the acid burned his skin. He hardly noticed anything anymore. At times felt as if he were floating, rising from the table and looking down at his own naked body from a spot below the ceiling.

"Hold his head still," the woman said. Malcolm lost the floating sensation as someone grabbed his hair, turning his head back so he was facing her.

"The eyes," she said. "I need to apply it directly to the cornea."

Her hand approached his face. He couldn't squeeze his eyes shut, someone was forcing him to keep them open, their fingers bruising his skin. For a split second, he felt a warm and sticky liquid forming a film on his eyes, entering his tear-duct. Then his surroundings went black, and Malcolm Reed screamed as agony surged through his nerves, filling every particle of his body.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to CordeliaBlack (Can he survive this?... Let's hope so), Buggles586 (I wouldn't ;-) ), Tata (we'll see about Trip...), Reedie (Ouch! That had to hurt ;-)! But don't take Malcolm away, I still need him -g-!), Gabi (tja, wie war das mit dem Krankenschwesternkomplex ;-)?), AquaSox (No... but maybe there's a way we can get him out of there), Katt (thank you! Glad to hear you're enjoying the story), Luna (there's -definitely- some buttkicking that needs to be done), stage manager (you'll see more about Trip in this chapter...), Rinne (thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the "spoilers"), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (I always love your comments, exactly my thoughts! And you're quite right about Malcolm's state of mind - he'll definitely be affected), KaliedescopeCat (I agree with you!), Maraschino (yeah, but as I said... maybe we can get him out of there ;-) ), Antares Star (here comes the update... I don't want to be responsible for anyone having a heart attack out there -g-. Glad to hear you're enjoying it so much), The Flaming Dragonfly (poor Mal, you want him to suffer -again-? Well, it's definitely not over for him yet), Gabi again (uh-uh, no bribery... cuz I have some chapters saved on -my- computer as well -eg-) and Eyes on Tactical (give your li'l Malcolm a hug from me, I'm sorry for being so mean to him... it's just that I like to torture him a little! Okay, I'm a bad person ;-) ) for reviewing!

Please read and review!

--------------

Chapter 11

"Dammit!"

Frustrated, Trip sat back on his heels, staring at the tangle of wires on the underside of the helm console. He'd need a microspanner to repair this, and several others of his tools back on Enterprise, maybe even a hand scanner to find the source of the problem. Well, if worse came to worse, a simple microspanner would be enough. But there was next to nothing he could do, having only a few crude screwdrivers and wires at his disposal.

He sighed. When he had told Chi'an and the others that he was an engineer - had been an engineer, anyway - their excited reaction had come as a surprise to him. He had soon learned that none of the people living in the camp knew much about technology. They hardly knew enough to maintain their only stolen flitter - well, maybe "maintain" was not the right word for what they had been doing to keep this thing running. After taking a good look at the navigation systems, Trip was surprised that this thing was still able to fly. Let alone fly on autopilot. They had practically begged him to take a look at it, and so Trip had spent the greater part of the three days he had been in the camp crouched under a console, sweating and swearing as he tried to repair sophisticated circuits with little more than a few rusty wires and spittle.

Still, in a way he always felt reluctant to pack away his few tools in the evening and return to the main building. As long as he had his hands on some kind of machinery that needed repairing, Trip was able to distract himself. Focus on engineering problems, forget about his nightmares, about the image of Malcolm's body half-buried under a heap of garbage behind one of those windowless factory buildings. In his dreams he could hear him scream, still alive, still fighting, but when he was awake all Trip could think of was the image of that dead body among the garbage, an image that had stayed with him ever since that first evening when Chi'an and Sepek had told him about the abductions.

On that evening, he had hardly found it in him to talk, let alone show any real interest when they showed him around the camp. A detached part of his mind had been impressed - their hiding place was perfectly located, an empty factory building in a deserted part of the city. The area somewhat resembled the old pictures of Western ghost towns back on Earth - dilapidated houses next to empty factory buildings with broken windows, the streets littered with rubble and old garbage. Chi'an had told him that this part of the city had been destroyed in a war several decades ago, the bombs turning most of the houses into smoking piles of stones. The Sar'veen, however, had never thought it necessary to rebuild them, simply leaving their destroyed living spaces and moving into another part of the town that had not been touched by the war.

This was were the fugitives had sought shelter, building a camp in three of the deserted buildings that were still more or less inhabitable (even though the roof leaked in some places, and it was freezing cold at night). From the outside, no one would ever guess that there were people living in this place - the fugitives had been careful to disguise their camp, hiding mostly in the basements and using the rooms upstairs only for storage.

There were twenty-five people living in the camp, but Trip had still not met all of them. Chi'an had said that some only used the camp to go into hiding for a few weeks, and traveled through the city for most of the year, doing "business" and exchanging information with other groups of fugitives. He had been surprised to learn that there were about five or six of these "camps" scattered throughout the city, changing location from time to time to prevent the police from discovering them.

Hardly any of the fourteen or fifteen "steady campers" were from the same species. On his first evening Trip had met T'Min, a Vulcan and probably the oldest inhabitant of the camp; Vern, a young woman from a planet whose name he had never heard before and the mother of baby Rish; the Andorian Lerin who was both the camp's cook and Sepek's best friend, and of course Lanja, the Xyrillian doctor.

Lanja was the only one who had exchanged more than a few words with Trip on that evening. Most of the others only introduced themselves, then went back about their business without giving him so much as another look. Trip had soon realized that they weren't being deliberately brusque, or rejecting him; the campers never talked much to each other, or made any special effort to socialize. He had no idea what they thought about the new arrival, whether they approved or disapproved, or just didn't care. And in a way, he was glad to be left alone. He was relieved he could simply crawl into his bunk in the evening, close his eyes and try to escape these thoughts and images, if only for the limited period of one night.

On that first evening, however, he did have a lengthier conversation with Lanja while the Xyrillian man treated his sprained ankle and the cuts on his back. Like Trip had guessed, the whip wounds had bled again, and Lanja needed a lot of time and moistened napkins until he had carefully peeled the shirt off of the engineer's back. While he did so, they talked, and Trip learned that it was by far not the first time the Xyrillian doctor treated this particular kind of injuries. Lanja was surprisingly efficient, considering his limited medical supplies and equipment, and after only two days, Trip found that the cuts were finally beginning to heal, due to the thick layer of ointment the Xyrillian applied to his back every morning and evening.

During their conversation, Lanja had told him about several of the campers; about Vern who had run away because her owner had tried to rape her, about Lerin who had been working in a steel mill sixteen hours a day before she decided that it was either run away or die of the poisonous fumes, and about Sepek who had been separated from his mother at the age of ten when his Sar'veen father had found himself in debt and decided that he needed quick money. He had sold the boy to a clothing factory where Sepek almost starved, the older workers taking away his meager rations and hardly leaving him enough to survive on. One night, Sepek had lain in his corner, the hunger pangs keeping him awake, when he saw one of the guards leave the room without locking the door. Half mad with hunger, Sepek simply got up and left, walked out of there in the middle of the night. Surprisingly enough, no one followed him as he went. He ran away, and lived on the street for several years until Chi'an found him as he rummaged through the garbage cans behind a restaurant. She had brought him back to the camp, and for the first time in his life Sepek was given enough to eat and a place to sleep without having to work ten to twelve hours a day. He learned to read, and spent most of his time studying the few books and newspaper scraps the campers had picked up somewhere.

"He says he's going to kill his father one day," Lanja said, carefully spreading the herb ointment on Trip's back. "We've tried to talk him out of it, said he'd only get killed if he tried to do such a thing. But he won't listen. He's going to do it one day, too."

Trip noticed that Lanja said a thing or two about every fugitive living in the camp, but never mentioned the one person who seemed to be in unchallenged charge of the group. Chi'an was no dictator, rather the opposite; she kept mostly to herself, and when she did come out of her small room in the back of the building, she seemed to prefer staying in the background, watching instead of actually participating in everyday life. Still, two days ago Trip had watched Lerin and another camper arguing about the food rations, and it had taken only one look and a mild rebuke from Chi'an to settle the disagreement. She was the one who was asked for permission if someone needed extra supplies or wanted to use the flitter, and it was her who decided which people left for "business tours" and which stayed in the camp. The other fugitives treated her with careful respect, and while Trip had never seen her get angry with anyone, he couldn't help the impression that most people were a little afraid of her. Chi'an never smiled, and when she disappeared into her room - she was the only one of the fugitives who had a room all to herself - no one dared to disturb her.

"Tucker! You in there?" A voice broke through his musings, and Trip started. Someone was knocking on the flitter's hatch, and he recognized Lanja's voice. "Hey, Tucker!"

"Come in," he called, and the hatch slid aside, revealing the stocky Xyrillian doctor.

"Still busy with the helm console?" Lanja asked and climbed inside. Trip saw that he was carrying a small brown container.

"Yeah." He suppressed a sigh as he looked at the wires which were still in the same state of disarray as they had been twenty minutes ago. "It's gonna take a while to bring this thing up to scratch."

Lanja smiled sheepishly. "We really did a poor job repairing it, didn't we?"

"It's not that bad," Trip said quickly. Lanja threw him a dry look from the corner of his eye that told Trip there was no fooling the old doctor. "Well, maybe it is," he admitted. "Some of the circuits in there were all but fried, and the rest would've given up the ghost sooner or later as well."

"Here." Lanja set the brown container down on the console. "I brought you some lunch. Lerin warmed up the left-overs from last night, and Chi'an told me you hadn't had any breakfast, so..."

"Thank you." Trip smiled his thanks, and was rewarded with a broad grin that reminded him very much of another doctor. As he opened the container, the sweetish smell of slightly overcooked _k'ven_ escaped. Reluctantly, he began forking up some of the food. He was hungry, but these days he hardly ever felt like eating.

Lanja smiled again, and made as if to leave. Trip hesitated, then decided that now was as good as any time. "Lanja," he said. The Xyrillian looked back at him.

"You need something else?"

"I'd like to ask you somethin'." Trip put his fork back down. "You got a minute?"

"Sure." The Xyrillian leaned against the hatch, regarding him thoughtfully. "It's about your friend, isn't it?"

Trip nodded. He had told Lanja all about their escape and Malcolm's disappearance, hoping against hope that the doctor might reassure him, tell him that there was a chance Malcolm hadn't been abducted by the people who ran the testing facilities, after all. But Lanja had only shaken his head, his voice sounding sad as he confirmed what Chi'an had already told him: There was only a very slight possibility that Malcolm was still alive, and if he was, then not for long. But Trip couldn't bring himself to accept the idea of Malcolm being dead. Not yet.

"I want to go back to the place where Chi'an and Sepek found me," he said. "I've had a look at the flitter's scanners and I think I can rig them up so they will pick up human bio signs in a range of about 500 meters. That way I could find out where Malcolm is, and then..."

"Then what?" Lanja shook his head. "Tucker, even if you somehow magic this thing into identifying your species' bio signs... it's been almost four days. And even if you do find your friend - what are you planning to do?"

"That," Trip said slowly, "is what I wanted to talk to you about." He raised his head. "Do you think Chi'an would help me... get him out of there?"

Lanja stared at him. "Get him out of there?"

"Yes. If he's still alive, then there is a chance I can get him out."

"And how?" Lanja shook his head. "Walk up to their door, smile and ask if you can have him back? This is crazy, Tucker."

"I was rather thinkin' along the lines of "walk up to their door and shoot whoever comes out"." He knew he sounded flippant, but Trip had never been more serious in his life. "You've got weapons back in the camp. Why don't we use them to free those people?"

"Tucker..." Lanja sighed. "There are more than sixty million people enslaved on this planet. If we used weapon force to free all of them-"

"I'm not talkin' about the whole planet!" Trip said, sharper than he had intended to. "I'm talkin' about people not very far away from here, sufferin' and dyin' at the hands of those bastards. You can't jus' go and ignore them only because you can't help everybody!"

The Xyrillian was silent for a moment. "You sound like Chi'an," he said then. "She always said that when she brought back another run-away she had picked up on the street. Some of the people in the camp said that we are enough already, that there isn't enough food for so many people. But she said that every single one of them will help us survive. And she's been right, so far." He paused. "Do you know how she escaped from slavery?"

Trip shook his head. "She never told me."

"She doesn't like to talk about her past," Lanja said. "I wouldn't, if I was her. Have you heard of the Orions?"

Again, Trip shook his head.

"They're known as slave traders throughout the galaxy. They kidnap and sell even their own people, and especially the women. To an Orion, a woman is little more than an intelligent animal. The Orion slave girls are famous for their beauty, and... animal-like wildness, as some people call it." Lanja sounded disgusted. "They're much sought-after, especially here on K'tera. Chi'an was one of those slave girls. She was sold to a Sar'veen brothel when she was sixteen. She never talks about the things they made her do there, and to be honest, I don't want to know. All I know is that she'd been there for more than five years when one day one of the clients tried to stab her with a knife. She managed to grab hold of it before he could hurt her, and stabbed him several times, but she didn't kill him."

"She didn't?"

Lanja shook his head. "She cut off his dick. And then, before anyone could stop her, she cut her face. With scars like that, she knew she was of no use to them anymore. She even tried to slit her wrists, but they stopped her before she could do so. Took her to a doctor, so the damage could be repaired. She fought them tooth and nail, but they dragged her off to a flitter and threw her in the back. They thought she was going to die anyway, and so they didn't bother to tie her up. On the way to the hospital she killed the two guards that were supposed to keep an eye on her, and escaped. I have no idea how she did it, but she managed to get away. She hid in an old factory building for several weeks, in the middle of the cold season. Almost died because the cuts on her face got infected. Somehow, she survived, and then founded this camp. I believe T'Min was the first one she picked up on the street. She's found most of us herself, at one time or another. I myself have known her for six years now."

There was a hint of pride in Lanja's voice at these words. Trip was silent for a moment, digesting what he had heard. He had suspected that there was a sad story behind Chi'an's scars, and wasn't really surprised to hear that she had taken a knife to her own face. What was rather unsettling, however, was her reason for doing so. It was only narrowly that Malcolm and he had escaped a fate very similar to hers. He couldn't think of himself being desperate enough to mutilate himself in such a way, but who knew what a few years in such a place might do to you. What kind of person you might become.

"Talk to her about your plan," Lanja said, breaking into his thoughts. "If you really think this will work, then talk to her. You never know with Chi'an. She might even agree to help you."

Trip nodded slowly. He was going to talk to her, this very evening.

XXX

As always in the late afternoon, the main room was crowded with people. The "living area" of the camp consisted mainly of one spacious hall, with Lerin's kitchen place and two big tables in the front. The back of the large room was separated into several smaller areas by curtains stretched between the walls, creating the atmosphere of a Bedouin desert camp. This was where the campers slept, most of them sharing their sleeping space with three or four other people. Trip had been given a cot in the "room" of an Andorian and a man whose species he had never seen before; both very quiet people who hardly ever talked, neither to Trip nor to one another. They didn't seem to mind, however, having to make room for another sleeper, and even though the narrow cot was hardly more comfortable than his mattress back at Orven's place, Trip found himself feeling almost at home here. He never got much sleep nights, lying awake for hours at a time, but in a way the place had a calming effect on him. Maybe it was just that no one here hit him, swore at him or tried to put him in restraints. Trip was perfectly content with being left alone for most of the time, at a place where he wasn't inferior to anyone and no one claimed to be his "owner".

Mostly, he went to bed early in the evening, exhausted by his work on the flitter's systems. Hardly any of the people ever sat up and talked, and if they did, you only heard the soft murmur of their voices. No one ever seemed to talk loud in here - not as a measure of precaution, Trip had realized, but because it was their way. The only time the noise level rose was when Rish woke up cranky and filled the room with her infant squalls.

Today, however, he remained sitting at the table after he had finished his evening ration. Chi'an was talking to T'Min, from time to time brushing back a stray lock that had fallen into her face. She listened to the old Vulcan with an intent concentration that was characteristical of her, and raised her voice when she answered, since T'Min was rather hard of hearing.

Trip waited until T'Min finally rose from her chair, announcing that she was going to bed. Chi'an nodded, and got up as well, gathering up their dishes.

"See you in the morning."

The old Vulcan ignored her - or, more likely, hadn't heard her - and shuffled off to the back end of the room where she disappeared behind one of the curtains.

Trip got up. "Chi'an..."

The Orion woman turned her head. "Yes?"

Trip took a deep breath. "Could I have a word with ya?"

Chi'an's eyes rested on him for a moment. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," he said, watching as she deposited her plates on the counter. "I'd like to ask you somethin'."

She returned to her former chair and gestured for him to sit down as well. "Take a seat."

Trip complied, feeling rather nervous. He didn't really know how to begin. There was so much at stake, and he had no back-up plan in case she refused.

"I'm almost done with the flitter," he said after a while. "Well, there're still a few circuits I need to replace, but I think I'll be done by tomorrow afternoon at the latest."

"That's good to hear," Chi'an said, folding her hands on the table and regarding him with her dark eyes. "But that isn't what you wanted to talk about."

"No," Trip said. "You know, I was thinkin'. That flitter is equipped with damn good sensors, both short range and long range. It'd take only a little calibratin', and they'd be able to pick up detailed bio signs in a range of over 500 meters. If we went back to the place near... near that factory, we could find out where those people are held prisoner. We could get them out of there."

Chi'an didn't say anything, at first. She simply looked at him, the soft glow of the lamp giving her scarred skin an almost golden hue. "It would take more than two people to do so," she said then. "And it would be very dangerous."

"I know." Trip forced himself to hold her gaze. "But I think it's worth the risk. We can't jus' let them die at the hands of those people. We have to-"

"We don't have to do anything, Tucker," she interrupted him. "We never kidnapped anyone, or used them for lab experiments. You can't demand that we help those people, and put our own lives in danger at the same time."

"No, I can't," Trip said quietly. "But I'm willin' to take the risk. I'll go alone. I only need your permission to take the flitter and a hand weapon..."

"You know that you're going to get yourself killed, do you?" Her voice was very calm.

"I have to do this, Chi'an." It wasn't a direct answer to her question, but then, she didn't really need to hear that he was aware of how small his chances of success were. She already knew that.

"You're willing to risk your own life, even though chances are that your friend has been killed already?" She still sounded strangely detached, as if they were discussing hypothetic options in a theoretical scenario.

"I... can't just leave him behind."

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully, as if the fact that he was willing to risk his life changed everything. Trip didn't really know what to make of her reaction, and almost startled when she spoke again, abruptly.

"I'm willing to help you, Tucker," she said. "And I'm willing to talk to the others, ask them for their help as well. But on one condition. You have to agree to do something for me in return."

Trip couldn't believe she had actually agreed to help him. It was the last thing he would have expected, given her former vehement reaction as he had told her that they couldn't let those people die.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, forcing himself to match her calm tone. Whatever it was, he would agree if she was willing to help him get Malcolm out of there, but there was no need to let her know that.

"I can't tell you the details yet," she said. "It's some... business I need to get done. But I won't lie to you and say there's no risk to it. It's actually quite dangerous."

Trip nodded. He knew there was no use pressing her for more information, and he couldn't risk her changing her mind again. He needed her help, even if it meant agreeing to do something he wasn't even sure he wanted to know about.

"I'll do it," he said.

Chi'an regarded him for another moment, then got up. "I'll talk to the others," she said. "If we want to save your friend, then we need to get started as soon as possible."

Trip nodded. Time was running short.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: R

AN: Thanks to Gabi (tja, wir machen alle unsere kleinen Freudschen Verschreiber ;-) ), highonscifi (hope it's been worth the wait!), Reedie (I know what you mean... writing this author's note gives me an excuse for not studying for my exams in February -shudders-), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (sorry about the long wait... never meant to drive you sane -g-), Tata (sorry it took me so long... I never had the time to update, and then the stupid internet was down...grr), luna (yeah, let's hope he isn't... but I'm not so sure ;-) ), stage manager (I admit it, I am -g-), Icea (okay, okay, I'm sorry about the cliffhangers! ;-) ), Rinne (I guess it's set in the second season, after Minefield and Singularity), Buggles586 (alright, let's get back to Mal...), The Flaming Dragonfly (well, even -if- (and I'm not saying that is gonna happen -eg-) Malcolm is going to get rescued, I guess there'll still be enough angst for him to go through), KaliedescopeCat (it would seem so...), bunsdarien (glad you like it... and feel free to review any time, I love your (and everyone else's) feedback ;-) ), LoveChilde (don't worry, Trip'll have to deal with his trauma soon enough...), Eyes on Tactical ( I suppose we're all sick little things ;-)... and no, it's not wrong to anticipate that there'll still be some h/c in this story) and CordeliaBlack (why does everyone think I'm an evil person?? -blinks at readers with big puppy dog eyes- okay, maybe I can see your point -g-...) for reviewing!

Please read and review!!!

Chapter 12

"What if we don't pick up any bio signs?"

Trip looked up at the person who had spoken. It was Zha'Khor, a middle-aged Tellarite woman with long, braided red hair. She hardly ever talked when it wasn't absolutely necessary, but had been one of the first to volunteer for the rescue mission. At the moment she was sitting in the chair next to the pilot's seat, holding her rifle loosely on her knees and evenly meeting his eyes.

"I don't know," Trip admitted. "I don't think they have cloaked the buildin', and if there are any bio signs in the near vicinity, then the scanners are gonna pick them up. But there's always a chance that we won't find them."

A brief silence followed his words. Trip looked around the flitter at the six people seated on the chairs or squatting on the floor, dark hoods shadowing their faces. They hadn't been the only ones willing to join the team, but Chi'an had decided it was best to take as few people as possible. There was Sepek, of course, who was quite good at shooting as Trip had been told, Chi'an in the pilot chair, Zha'Khor, Lerin the Andorian, a man with deep ridges on his forehead and a brown pattern on his hands who was called Lem (his real name was unpronounceable for everyone except himself), and Lanja, the Xyrillian doctor. Lanja had refused to accept one of the phaser rifles, saying that he was coming along "just in case". Trip knew how protective the Xyrillian felt of his fellow campers, and hoped that they weren't going to need the doctor's skills, at least not to treat anyone present in the flitter. He didn't even dare to think of what condition any potential rescued victims might be in. Trip remembered what Chi'an had told him about the man who had screamed for three days and three nights before he had died. If Malcolm was still alive, he might be suffering just the same, poisoned by the drugs he'd been injected with.

Trip closed his eyes. Seeing the tension on the others' faces only intensified his own anxiety - no, not anxiety. It was fear. He wasn't afraid of using the rifle that was resting on his knees; if anything, the prospect of a fight made him feel even more alert and ready for action. No, what he was afraid of was activating those perfectly recalibrated bio scanners, only to face a blank display after minutes of futile scanning. _No second human bio sign within a range of 1 kilometer._

It was as he had told Zha'Khor - he had no idea what he was going to do if the scanners didn't pick up any bio signs. Search the area, maybe, rummage through every heap of garbage until he found Malcolm's decaying body? But what if they hadn't taken him outside after killing him? What if they had burned him, or otherwise disposed of the dead body?

"Approaching the factory buildings," Chi'an's voice came from the pilot seat, and Trip opened his eyes again, forcibly pushing these thoughts away.

Suddenly he remembered something Malcolm had said years ago, in a freezing cold shuttlepod with half a bottle of bourbon in his bloodstream and only ten hours of air left: "Happy endings. Must think happy endings."

Yeah, Mal. Let's think happy endings. Just hold on a little longer, my friend.

"Where are you going to take us down?" Sepek asked. Trip looked out the front window, and saw that the flitter was descending again. Outside, the huge windowless buildings he remembered so well were growing larger - dark, forbidding shapes in an otherwise brightly lit city.

"In the backyard where we landed last time," Chi'an answered, her fingers darting across the helm controls. "It's the safest place to start from."

No one spoke as she initiated the landing approach, concentrating on the difficult task of bringing down a large flitter on a small yard surrounded by high stone walls.

Finally, a slight shudder told Trip that the landing thrusters had been deactivated. All eyes immediately came to rest on Chi'an. From the moment when they had started planning this mission, she had been in charge, making it clear in her reserved way that the final decisions how to proceed were up to her, and no one else.

"Tucker," she said quietly, gesturing at the main console. Trip got up, his heart pounding in his chest.

Concentrate on the scanners. Don't think about anything else. The scanners.

After he had figured out how the system worked, it hadn't been too difficult to recalibrate the scanners so they would automatically lock onto any human bio sign in the near vicinity. All he needed to do now was activate the scan unit, but all the same, Trip's fingers trembled as he sat down in front of the console.

Concentrate.

No one said a word, they all watching in silence as he began to work on the controls. Trip watched as a yellow display lit up, telling him that the scanners were online and working. Then, with a swift motion so no one would notice the shaking of his hand, he activated the program.

Alien letters appeared on the small screen, the Sar'veen equivalent of the word "scanning". Or at least Trip believed that was what it meant. The few letters Orven had taught them were not enough by far for him to decipher Sar'veen writing.

"And?" Chi'an asked, her eyes intent on his face. Trip briefly shook his head, staring down at the display.

"Nothin' yet."

Lerin shifted on her chair. "How long is this going to-"

"Got somethin'!"

The screen had changed into a pattern of blue lines, representing a sketched outline of the area. Trip saw a dark blue rectangle - the factory's main building - surrounded by several smaller squares, presumably the storage houses. At the very edge of the map there was a small blue spot, a building standing about a hundred meters apart from the rest of the factory complex.

"There," Trip said hoarsely, pointing at a pale gray dot in the middle of the detached building. "That's it. A human bio sign."

Chi'an met his eyes, and for once, her lips curved upward in a faint smile. "So he's alive."

"Yes," Trip said. "Looks like he is."

Think happy endings.

Trip felt a smile tug at his lips, and for a moment wanted to laugh out loud with relief. Malcolm was alive. He was going to get him out of there.

_Must think happy endings._

"Alright," Chi'an said, getting up from her chair. "You know what to do. Sepek, Lem, you go first and secure the area. Tucker, can you find out how many other people there are in this building?"

Trip bent back down over the console, hardly noticing the opening and closing of the hatch as Sepek and Lem left the flitter.

"Looks like there are... six other bio signs in there," he said as he changed the scanners settings to a wider range. "No, seven. Five of them are Sar'veen."

"Five," Chi'an repeated. "Any guards outside the building?"

Trip glanced down at the display that was now showing eight gray spots within the blue square that represented the building. "No. They're all inside the house."

"Good."

The hatch opened again, and Sepek appeared, his rifle at the ready. "The building's only a few hundred meters from here," he said. "There shouldn't be any problems."

"Very well." Chi'an gestured at the rest of the team to follow her, and silently they got up, climbing out of the hatch one after another without ever speaking a word.

The night air was cold, and Trip gripped his rifle harder as he looked around the small backyard. His senses seemed sharpened, a feeling similar to what he had experienced when they had run away from Orven's place. He wasn't afraid anymore, only very alert, aware of every smell and sound around him.

"Good luck."

Trip turned around and saw Lanja smiling at him. The Xyrillian doctor was still inside the shuttle, crouching next to the hatch with a small gun in his hand. They had agreed that Lanja was going to stay with the flitter, since the Xyrillian refused to use one of the rifles, and insisted on taking only a small hand pistol.

"I'm not going to use a weapon that can't be set on stun," he said, then added "I'm a doctor", as if that explained all about his reluctance to fight and kill.

Chi'an had accepted his refusal, and so no one mentioned it again.

Trip nodded in acknowledgement, and Lanja smiled, then pushed the button to close the hatch.

"Let's go."

Following Chi'an and Sepek, they made their way through the narrow passage leading to the alleyway Trip vaguely remembered from the time when Chi'an and Sepek had all but carried him back to the flitter. This time, he noticed the garbage and glass shards that were littered on the ground, and carefully walked around them so as not to cause any noise.

They passed the rest of the factory buildings, keeping close to the walls of the storage houses. In the meantime they had left the area that was lit by street lamps, and the ground was getting muddy, making it more difficult for them to watch where they were going. In a way, the place reminded Trip of an abandoned building site; there were rusty containers and crates half buried in the ground and filled with old rainwater, dried-up bushes growing everywhere between the discarded paper and bottles that covered the ground.

"There," Sepek said quietly. Trip raised his head. It was dark, but he could still make out the clear shape of a building only a hundred meters away, right in the middle of the muddy field. In comparison with the rest of the complex, it wasn't very large, no more than fifty or sixty meters in length. It had a flat roof, and no visible door - in fact, it looked more like a huge block of cement than anything else.

"The entrance is in the back." Sepek pointed with his rifle. "We'll have to walk around it."

"They might have scanners in there," Lerin said, her face shadowed by her hood so that only her mouth was visible. "What if they pick up our bio signs?"

"Gives us an advantage," Chi'an said calmly. "If they come out to see what's going on, we can shoot them one by one. And we'll be long gone before the police's here."

She nodded at Sepek and Trip. "We'll be the first to go in. The rest of you give us covering fire, then come after us."

As they approached the building, Trip noticed that his hands were shaking again - not with fear, but because of the pure adrenaline that was flooding his body. He half-expected, half _wished_ for someone to come out of that building, give him a reason to use the phaser rifle whose handle felt warm on his cold, sweaty fingers.

Nothing happened, though, and there was no sign that anyone in there had noticed their presence. As Sepek had said, there was an entrance on the back of the building, a small door with a panel next to it on the wall.

Chi'an lifted her rifle, but before she pulled the trigger she threw Trip a last look. "Ready?"

He nodded, and she fired her gun, the panel bursting into flames. A smell of burning wire filled the air. The door hadn't opened, and Sepek forced the barrel of his gun between the door and the frame, using the rifle as a lever to push it open.

With Chi'an leading the way, she, Trip and Sepek entered a narrow corridor lit by white tubes that were embedded in the ceiling. Trip saw a door at the end of the hallway, with a sign written in Sar'veen letters.

"Wait!" Chi'an held up her hand, and only a split second later, the door opened. She never waited for the Sar'veen man to let out a scream, firing the instant he stepped into the corridor. Trip saw his eyes grow wide when the blast hit him square in the chest. He was slammed against the wall and dead before he even hit the ground, his chest one smoldering black wound.

"Come on!"

They broke into a run, dodging the dead body of the Sar'veen that was lying crumpled up on the floor. Another man came out, screaming and holding up his hands in a desperate gesture of defense before Sepek shot him as well.

Entering the room at the end of the corridor, Trip took a brief look around, his rifle at the ready. It was clearly some sort of lab, with a metal examination table in the middle and rows of shelves on the walls. For a moment, the bright light hurt his eyes, and he squinted, hearing someone scream and the breaking of glass.

When his vision cleared, he saw that there were three more Sar'veen in the room, one of them lying dead at Chi'an's feet, a puddle of pale orange blood spreading around him and pooling between the shards of broken lab equipment.

Chi'an raised her rifle again, and pointed it at the two remaining Sar'veen, a man and a woman clad in pale yellow coveralls. Both of them were backed up against the wall, their gray faces white with fear as they stared at the rifle pointed at their heads.

"Where are they?" Chi'an asked, and took a step towards them. "The prisoners. Where are they?"

"P-please don't shoot us," the man whispered, his voice breaking. "Please..."

"Where are they?" Sepek walked up to him until they were face-to-face, pushing the barrel of his gun into the man's stomach. The Sar'veen cried with pain and doubled up, arms wrapped around his mid section. Sepek grabbed his hair and yanked his head back up. "You bastard. Where are the prisoners?"

"You're not going to get away with this." The woman spoke up. Her voice was shaking, but she held her head high, meeting Chi'an's eyes. "Go on and shoot, but you're not going to get away with this."

"Where are the prisoners?" Chi'an raised her gun to bring it down on the woman's head, but suddenly the Sar'veen ducked past her and made a desperate run for the door.

"Shoot her!"

It happened very quickly. Reacting to Chi'an's cry, Trip raised his rifle and fired, not taking aim, only thinking that the woman had to be stopped. He hit her right in the back. Again, there was the sound of glass breaking as another equipment table was knocked over by the force of a dead body slamming into it. The various bottles and phials shattered on the floor, their contents filling the room with a sharp smell of acid.

Trip stared at the still body of the woman lying among the shards. She was dead, orange blood coming from the wound on her back and soaking her yellow coverall. She was dead, and he had killed her. Very slowly, he lowered his rifle, not able to take his eyes off the body on the floor in front of him.

"Where are the prisoners?"

Like a man in a dream, Trip turned around and saw Sepek forcing the Sar'veen man to his knees, pressing the muzzle of his gun against the man's temple. "Tell me!"

"P-please d-don't kill m-me," the man sobbed. "P-please, I didn't - I didn't want to do it, I was only doing m-my job, they'd've fired me if I hadn't-"

"Listen." Chi'an crouched down in front of the man so she could look him in the eyes. "Tell me where the prisoners are, and we won't kill you."

The man drew in a loud, gasping breath before he answered. "Th-they're in the back of the building," he said, pointing at a door at the far end of the room. "Through that door, down the corridor..."

"Good." Nodding at Sepek, Chi'an got up, and raised her gun one more time.

"No!" the Sar'veen screamed, his eyes wide with terror, and a moment later he dropped limply to one side, blood soaking the front of his coverall.

Chi'an never wasted another look on him, and followed Sepek to the door the man had pointed at. Trip didn't move, staring down at the blood on the floor. There was orange blood everywhere, on the floor, the walls, the tables, filling his world and making it impossible for him to look away. He had killed that woman. Fired his gun and shot her in the back.

"Come on, Tucker, we don't have time for that!" Chi'an was standing in the doorway, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "The police can be here any time."

Her voice brought him back to reality, and Trip was able to finally take his eyes off the dead body. Malcolm. He had to find Malcolm.

Following Sepek and Chi'an, he walked down a second hallway. There was another door at the end of it, and Chi'an fired her rifle. This time, the door opened immediately.

"Lights," Sepek said quietly. The ceiling lamps lit up, and illuminated a large room covered with white tiles. On either side, there were cells fronted by metal bars. A sharp smell of disinfectant and urine hung in the air, reminding Trip of the cargo hold back on the slave ship.

"Malcolm?" he asked, but there was no answer. His voice echoed strangely in the silent room. "Mal?"

Again, there was no reaction, and Trip took a few hesitant steps into the room. The first two cells were empty.

"There's someone in here." Sepek had walked past him, and pointed at one of the cells a little further down the corridor.

"Here."

Trip stepped closer.

Malcolm lay in the remotest corner of his cell, curled up in a fetal position. Trip fired at the lock to open the door, and in a single, swift stride was at his friend's side. Malcolm was naked, shivering violently, his arms wrapped around his upper body in a hopeless attempt to warm himself up. Strangely enough, his eyes were open, but he didn't look up as Trip approached.

"Malcolm!"

Crouching down next to him, Trip saw that Malcolm's arms and upper body were covered with dozens of small burn wounds, some of which looked more recent than the others. There was blood on his face and next to him on the floor, and he was lying in his own urine which was blood-stained as well. When he became aware of someone approaching, Malcolm tried to retreat further into the cell, bumping against the wall in his desperate attempt to get away. All the while he never made a sound or turned his head, even though his eyes were wide open, his pupils dilated with terror.

"Malcolm, it's me. Trip." Carefully, Trip extended a hand and touched Malcolm's shoulder. The Lieutenant's skin felt clammy and cold. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

At the touch of his hand, Malcolm shrank back, his eyes searching the room in a strangely aimless manner. Trip's breath caught in his throat when he realized that Malcolm could not see. He was blind.

"Malcolm." Trip tried to speak as soothingly as he could, gently tightening his grip on Malcolm's shoulder. "It's Trip. I'm going to get you out of here. It's okay, no one's going to hurt you."

Malcolm gave no sound, but he seemed to relax a little. Trip took off his jacket and wrapped it around the Lieutenant, very carefully so as not to hurt him. Malcolm offered no resistance, and gradually, the shivering subsided.

"We found two more." Chi'an's voice came from the door, and Trip turned around. In the meantime, the rest of the team had entered the building, and he saw Zha'Khor holding the limp, naked body of a Klingon woman in her arms. "Sepek's got the other one, but I don't think he's going to survive. He's hardly breathing."

"We need to get out of here," Trip heard Sepek's voice. "They're going to be here any minute if one of those bastards managed to activate the emergency signal."

"On my way." Trip turned back to Malcolm who had tensed at the sound of strange voices coming from outside the cell. "Malcolm, I'm going to take you out of here. There's nothin' to worry about, those people out there are... friends." For want of a better word. Trip wasn't sure if he actually considered Sepek and Chi'an his friends. "No one's going to hurt you. The people who did this to you are dead."

He slid one arm under Malcolm's legs, wrapped the other one around the Lieutenant's shoulders and lifted him up. Trip knew it must hurt, the coarse fabric of the jacket rubbing against the burned skin, but Malcolm never made a sound, only closed his eyes and rested his head on Trip's shoulder.

As he stepped out into the corridor, his eyes fell on the man in Sepek's arms. He was still very young, almost a boy, with thin ridges on either side of his face and the back of his hands. His skin was covered with an ugly rash, and the places where he had scratched himself raw were clearly visible in the bright light.

Chi'an had followed his eyes. "Well, at least he's not going to die in this place. Your friend alright?"

Trip nodded. Malcolm was going to survive, and right now, that was the only thing that mattered.

They left the building on the same way they had come, no one casting another look at the dead bodies or the blood spattered lab. Malcolm shivered when the cool night air hit his bare skin.

"We're almost there," Trip said quietly, feeling he had to let Malcolm know what was going on. "Back in the flitter it'll be a lot warmer. There's nothin' to worry about."

Trip didn't know why he kept saying this; Malcolm seemed past the point of worrying about anything, let alone reacting to reassurances. The Lieutenant's continued silence was unsettling, and briefly Trip wondered if they had done something so he had lost the ability to speak. But no, in that case Malcolm would at least have tried to produce a sound, which he hadn't. He was simply not responding, and Trip began to suspect that it was more than only a reaction to the physical shock he had suffered.

After only a short time, Trip's arms were aching with the heavy burden, and the still sore skin on his back had started to sting painfully, but he declined Lerin's offer to carry Malcolm the rest of the way. He knew the Lieutenant would be terrified if he handed him over to a stranger, even more so since he couldn't see what was going on. Trip kept talking softly, telling Malcolm the names of the people around him and describing their surroundings. The sound of his voice seemed to have a calming effect on the Lieutenant.

"We're there," Trip said quietly when they had finally reached the flitter. "I'm gonna take you inside now, okay?"

Unsurprisingly, Malcolm didn't give an answer to his question. Trip waited for Sepek to climb inside, then, with Lanja's help, lifted Malcolm through the hatch. The Xyrillian's face hardened when he saw the wounds on the naked bodies of the three rescued people. Silently, he helped Sepek, Trip and Zha'Khor lay them down in the back of the flitter, producing several blankets so they wouldn't have to lie on the cold floor.

Trip heard Chi'an start the shuttle, and felt a slight shudder as the flitter took off. Malcolm's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, and he was still shivering despite the thick blankets he was covered with. Lanja had taken only a brief look at him, then moved on to his other patients after assuring Trip with a quick nod that Malcolm was stable for the moment.

Rubbing the Lieutenant's hands in order to warm them up, Trip watched as the Xyrillian doctor examined the Klingon woman.

"She's going to survive," Lanja said after while, sat back on his heels and spread another blanket over the woman's naked body. "Like your friend, she's malnourished and badly dehydrated, and probably suffering from the after-effects of the drugs they injected her with. But she's tough. She'll pull through."

"Lanja." Sepek was kneeling next to the young man whose skin beneath the rash had turned a pale shade of gray. "I think his breathing has stopped."

Lanja felt his pulse, waited, and then let go of the too-thin wrist, gently pulling a blanket over the boy's face. "He's dead."

Trip looked back down at Malcolm whose eyes were still closed. His face was pale and glistening with sweat, and Trip reached out to brush back a strand of dark brown hair that had fallen across his forehead.

"You're gonna be alright," he said quietly. "Happy endings, remember? You're gonna be just fine. Now don't you give up on me, y'hear?"

At first, there was no reaction, but then, almost imperceptibly, Malcolm nodded his head. Yes.

"Good," Trip whispered, watching as his friend fell asleep, his breathing growing slow and even. And he wondered if Malcolm was ever going to speak again.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi (nee nee, ich musste nicht nachsitzen ;-) ), Luna (that's how I see her, too), Rinne (thank you! I was a little unsure about that part, so it's great to hear that you liked it), highonscifi (yes, it's going to take a while for him to come to terms with what he's done), Maraschino (about time, wasn't it ;-)?), CordeliaBlack (don't worry, there're still a few chapters left -g- ), Tata (I'm sorry about the thing with the chapters. There is a nice little trick, however, how you can get to the chapter even if it's not in the drop down menue yet. In the internet address, it says fanfiction net, then a whole bunch of numbers and then /number of chapter/ at the end of the address. So if you want to open, for example, chapter 12, and it's not in the drop down yet, just go to chapter 11, change /11/ into /12/, press -Enter- and there you are. Works almost always ;-) ), Exploded Pen (sure I wanna hug Malcolm ;-)!), LoveChilde (well, getting them back home isn't going to be that easy...), The Flaming Dragonfly (thank you for your encouragement, it's great to hear you like my writing style!), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (you are right, of course, about the setting of the story. To be perfectly honest, when I started writing this, I didn't really think about when the story takes place... but it could be happening just after "Storm Front", that's right), PJ in NH (thank you!), stage manager (Oh no, please don't! I love getting your reviews for -every- chapter -g-), Reedie (let's torture Malcolm some more, hm? -eg-), lieutenants-lady (yeah, Trip found him... but will he get better? -veg-) and Eyes on Tactical (so many questions... maybe a few are answered in this chapter!) for reviewing!

Sorry if I forgot anyone, but, like everyone else, I haven't been getting all my reviews, they're only just coming in. And now, after much blahblah... read and review!

-----------------------

Chapter 13

He was surrounded by darkness. That was nothing new; it had been dark for quite a while now, and Malcolm had almost forgotten the time when it had been different. Sometimes, the darkness changed its colors, turning from a red black to a blue black, but colors were something he was starting to forget as well.

Malcolm knew that he was blind. Trip had mentioned it and he had seemed rather worried, had asked him what "they" had done to him. But Malcolm had no answers to give. He had tried; every time Trip came and talked to him he tried to speak, but he couldn't. He couldn't even produce a sound, thus at least indicating that he was willing to speak. It was as if his mind had forgotten how to do this, make his lips form words, and so all Malcolm could do was nod or shake his head.

The first few days he had mostly been sleeping. It was very quiet in this place where Trip had taken him, and Malcolm found he liked the silence. The distant murmur of voices was more reassuring than frightening, and only when steps approached his bed he tensed, adrenaline flooding his body as he expected someone to open the cell door and press another hypo spray against his neck. That was another thing he couldn't help, his body going rigid with fear even when he realized that the approaching steps belonged to Trip.

Trip. He seemed to be always near, talking, bringing him food, helping him up to use the bathroom facilities and staying close when that doctor examined him again. Malcolm hated and feared those examinations, hands touching his body and applying substances to his skin. Trip had told him that the doctor needed to put ointment on his burn wounds so they wouldn't get infected, but Malcolm still couldn't stop his heart from pounding wildly in his chest every time he felt that cool gel on his skin. Part of him always waited for it to turn into acid, eating into his skin and burning as if someone had dropped liquid metal onto his chest.

He hardly ever left the bed these days. There were times when he felt too weak even to move, and there were times when he was floating again, feeling as if his body weighed nothing at all. Afterwards he always felt rather sick, and more than once Trip had to help him out of bed and guide him to the bucket so he could vomit. The doctor said this was an_ after-effect of the drugs_ and that he was probably going to experience frequent attacks of nausea for quite some time. Malcolm didn't care. As long as he wasn't having one of those nightmares again, none of the "after-effects" bothered him too much.

Quite often, there were voices coming and going in the place where he slept. Trip had told him the names of the people living in this camp, but Malcolm had a hard time remembering which voice belonged to which name. It didn't matter, though, since he wasn't talking to them anyway. At one time, when he had been feeling a little better, Trip had taken him someplace else to sit at a table and eat some soup, and then he had heard a woman talking to Trip. She had lowered her voice so he couldn't understand what she was saying, but she had sounded urgent, almost angry. And Trip, who usually told him in detail about everything that was said and done around him, had never mentioned this conversation again.

Since Malcolm couldn't ask him, however, there was no way for him to find out what they had been talking about, and he forgot about the incident. He tended to forget a lot of things, maybe another _after-effect of the drugs_. Or maybe he was just too tired these days to remember things correctly.

This morning, however, for the first time in several days, Malcolm had felt strangely alert after waking up, and even the awkward procedure of washing and shaving with Trip's help hadn't left him as tired and worn-out as it usually did. He had even agreed to sit at the table and have some of that awful puree the doctor had said he should eat. Later, when Trip had taken him back to his bed, Malcolm had found to his surprise that for once eating breakfast hadn't left him feeling sick. His stomach didn't seem to resent the idea of food anymore, and, having eaten his fill, Malcolm had no trouble at all falling asleep again.

"Malcolm?"

Steps were approaching, and Malcolm heard the soft rustle of fabric being pushed aside. Involuntarily, he tensed, a familiar surge of panic jolting him out of his doze.

"It's me, Trip," a voice said somewhere above him, and even though Malcolm had already known that, the familiar words allowed him to relax. He nodded as a way of greeting and pushed himself to a sitting position, feeling the mattress beneath him move slightly as Trip sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Sleep well?"

Again, Malcolm nodded, and realized that he had indeed slept well. No nightmares this morning.

"Good." Trip sounded genuinely relieved. "I brought you some tea, the closest thing to chamomile I could find in the kitchen. Tastes pretty good, actually."

Malcolm wasn't really thirsty, but knew that he had no choice. The doctor had told Trip that Malcolm needed a steady fluid supply, and the Commander would not budge until Malcolm had finished the last drop of that close-to-chamomile tea. He nodded and a moment later felt a hand on his fingers, closing them around a warm mug. The tea did taste quite good, and Malcolm took another careful sip.

"Lanja said that you can start eatin' solid food in a few days," Trip said, sounding happy at the prospect. "He said you're doin' a lot better. Another three or four days, and he can start cuttin' down on the medication."

Malcolm was rather relieved to hear that; the medication the doctor made him take was some sour smelling substance that tasted vaguely of old toothpaste, and always left him feeling slightly sick to the stomach.

He took another sip of his tea, and heard Trip clear his throat.

"You know," he said, and for some reason hesitated before he continued, "I've been talkin' to Lanja about... about your eyes."

Malcolm tensed and lowered the mug again. He remembered the time when the doctor had examined his eyes; the feeling of hands touching his face and eyelids had been nothing short of terrifying, and Malcolm had no wish to repeat the procedure.

Trip shifted slightly on the bed. "He doesn't really know what's wrong, but he thinks the damage might not necessarily be permanent. He might even be able to help you. I realize this isn't somethin' you want to talk about, but it would be really helpful if he knew what... has happened."

Malcolm noticed that his hands were beginning to tremble and clenched his fingers around the mug. Stop, he thought. Please stop. I don't want to think about that. But of course he couldn't say so, and Trip continued.

"Malcolm, I'm sorry, but I need to ask you this: Did they... inject you with somethin' that made you lose your sight?"

The trembling got worse, and Malcolm felt some of the warm liquid spill over, dripping down on his hands.

I don't want to talk about that.

Trip seemed to have noticed. He laid a hand on Malcolm's arm, and gently took the mug from his hands.

"I'm sorry. Lanja told me to ask you, but if you don't feel up to-"

Malcolm held up a hand, and then, slowly, shook his head. Trip understood immediately.

"So it wasn't an injection?"

Again he shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself to stop the trembling. He heard Trip swallow before he asked quietly: "Did they... put some kind of substance into your eyes?"

Malcolm nodded, involuntarily clenching his hands to fists. The scene he had relived over and over again in his nightmares came back to his mind, and he lowered his head so Trip wouldn't see the anguish on his face.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. "It's okay, Mal," Trip said. "It's okay."

The physical contact helped him calm down somewhat. Trip sat quietly, waiting for the trembling to subside before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry."

Malcolm kept his head down, feeling the warmth rise in his cheeks. Trip must be thinking he was weak, a coward. But he couldn't help it. The memories were always there, ready to pounce on him whenever he started feeling safe and at ease, and he couldn't even tell Trip that he was sorry. Sorry for being a burden, and sorry for not being able to cope, for waking up with tears streaming down his face almost every night when the dreams made him go through the whole thing again and again.

"Why don't you try and get some rest," Trip said gently. "We can talk about this later, okay?"

Malcolm swallowed hard, and nodded. Later. Later he would be prepared. He would pull himself together, and give them the information they needed. Maybe even let that doctor examine his eyes again. Later.

With Trip's help, he lay down again, pulling the covers up to his chin and closing his eyes. Again, the mattress moved as Trip got up. For a moment his hand lingered on Malcolm's shoulder, then, after adjusting the blankets one more time, he pulled it back.

"I'll be back later."

Malcolm nodded, still feeling ashamed although there was no hint of anger or impatience in Trip's voice. The steps retreated, and Malcolm clenched his hand around the sheets.

I'm so sorry.

XXX

Quietly, Trip left the room he shared with Malcolm and the other two men, making sure to push the curtains back into place. He shouldn't have brought this up just yet, he knew that now. Malcolm seemed to be doing well enough; eating, beginning to wash and dress himself instead of passively letting it happen, and responding more and more often when Trip asked him a question. But these things were only superficial, a proof of Malcolm Reed's self-sufficiency that was an integral part of his nature. His body was also beginning to heal; the burn wounds the acid had caused on his skin had not become infected, and two days ago Malcolm had finally been able to pass water without the urine being stained with blood.

But he would not speak. Not even in his nightmares did Malcolm utter a sound, except for the occasional whimper or low sob. Sometimes Trip had the impression that Malcolm was trying to say something; the Lieutenant would get that look of pain and frustration and bite down on his lips, but it was obvious that he just couldn't do it. Trip never pushed him, seeing that the situation caused Malcolm enough distress as it was. Still, he was beginning to get worried. Lanja said that it might be the drugs doing something to Malcolm's brain, but lacking all but the most basic of medical equipment there was no way to find out. All they could do was restore his body fluids, keep him in bed and hope for the best. More than anything else, Trip wished he could take Malcolm back to Enterprise and have Dr.Phlox examine him. Malcolm might trust someone he knew to do something about his eyes, for it was obvious that he was still terrified of strangers touching him. He seemed to be alright with Trip helping him, but still shrank back whenever Lanja came to apply more ointment to his burns.

The Xyrillian doctor said that it was a normal reaction to the trauma he'd been through, and that Malcolm was going to become less touch-shy as time went by. Still, it wasn't always easy for Trip to see the Lieutenant like that, to get used to a Malcolm Reed who never spoke, slept for the most part of the day and woke up at night struggling against invisible restraints, tears running down his thin face. And even though Trip still had nightmares himself of the time when he had shot the Sar'veen woman, there were times when he was glad that he had done it.

The Klingon woman they had rescued together with Malcolm showed similar symptoms, internal bleeding, nightmares and disorientation, but unlike the Lieutenant she would not let Lanja come near her. When she had first woken up, she had threatened to kill the doctor if he ever touched her again, and had refused to accept any of his medication. As a consequence, her condition was getting worse, but she would not let anyone come near her to help. Attempts to talk to her about what had happened at the lab had failed; if she did respond to any questions, then her answer consisted mostly of a flood of expletives and threats what she was going to do to anyone who dared to lay a hand on her. Lanja said that she was going to die if she continued to refuse medical treatment, but except for him, no one seemed to be bothered too much by that fact. Most of the campers were afraid of the woman and avoided her the best they could.

Trip felt sorry for her, but as time went by realized that he had other things to worry about. Like Chi'an, for example. She was becoming more persistent, insisting that Trip fulfill his part of the deal and take care of that "business" she wanted him to do. Even now, she had not let him in on the details yet. Trip told her time and again that it was too early, that Malcolm still needed him and wasn't ready to be left alone yet. If he left now, leaving Malcolm with people he neither knew nor trusted, the Lieutenant's hard-won confidence might be destroyed altogether. Lanja confirmed this, but Chi'an would have none of that. She got angry with both of them, and Trip knew that soon his strategy of stalling for time would no longer work. Chi'an was not the sort of person who took kindly to disobedience. He was going to have to do whatever she ordered him to.

Fortunately, though, Malcolm didn't know about their deal. It would only serve to upset him, and the last thing Malcolm needed right now was having to worry about Trip as well. At some point, Trip knew he was going to have to tell him, but not now. Not when Malcolm was only just starting to eat, and was becoming interested in his surroundings again instead of passively staring into nothingness, as he had been doing the first two or three days after his rescue.

Maybe, Trip mused, after a while Malcolm would even agree to let Lanja do something about his eyes. Assuming, of course, that the damage wasn't permanent. He was still hoping the Lieutenant's sight might return as time went by, but so far there had been no improvement. The idea of Malcolm Reed staying blind for the rest of his life made Trip shudder. He wasn't ready to accept it yet, even though Malcolm seemed to be doing just that. If anything, his inability to speak bothered the Lieutenant more than the loss of his eyesight.

"Tucker."

Trip turned around and saw that it was Chi'an who had spoken. He sighed inwardly, preparing himself for another argument.

"Yeah?"

"I need to talk to you."

She gestured at him to follow her, not waiting for an answer. Trip's unease increased as he saw that she was walking towards her room, a small chamber at the back of the main hall. Chi'an hardly ever allowed anyone to enter her private living space, and the fact that she did so now confirmed his guess that this time she meant business.

She went inside without looking back, leaving the door open behind her. After a brief moment of hesitation he followed her inside.

The room didn't look very different from those of the other campers; there was a narrow bunk and a chair, an old wooden box where she kept her belongings and several old magazine cut outs on the wall. Trip noticed that most of those pictures showed forests, deserts, wide open spaces and untouched landscapes. No people.

"Sit down."

Her voice startled him, and Trip quickly looked away, feeling almost guilty for staring at her private possessions. He sat down on the very edge of her bed, and watched as she took a seat on the chair opposite to him.

"Your friend is getting better."

It wasn't a question. Trip forced himself to meet her eyes and keep his voice calm as he answered.

"That's right. But he still needs my help. He-"

"Listen, Tucker," she cut him off, and he heard the first trace of anger creep into her voice. "We have a deal. I helped you get your friend out of there. He's alive, and it's not my fault he can't see or talk. I told you it was going to be like that, and you'd probably have done him a favor, leaving him where he was."

Trip flinched, but she went on before he could say something. "But that's your business, not mine. All I want you to do is fulfill your part of the bargain, and I need you to do so tomorrow. It would be too dangerous to wait any longer."

"What do you want me to do?" Trip clenched his hands around the edge of the bunk. Tomorrow. Not even a few days, maybe a week to break the news gently, allow Malcolm to get used to the thought that he was going to leave.

"You know how an air filter works, don't you, Tucker?"

Trip nodded mutely.

"Good." Chi'an pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolding it and placing it on the bed next to him. It was a map, drawn with pencil and labeled with letters that were unfamiliar to him. Still, the drawing reminded him of something he had seen before, on the display of the flitter's scanners.

"I told you that most of the factory complex belongs to that large pharmaceutical group. Here," Chian pointed at a rectangle in the middle of the map, "is their main building, and here are the production halls and the storage houses." She pointed at the adjoining buildings. "All of them are connected by an air duct system that constantly filters the atmosphere, to decrease the risk of a bacterial contamination. This," her finger moved to a small square between the main building and one of the storage houses, "is the central filtration plant where the air passes through the filters and all impure substances are removed."

Trip's heart sank as he realized what this was all about.

"You want me to put somethin' into that filter."

"You are the only one of us who knows enough about technology to make sure that it works. All you'll have to do is get access to the filtration plant and release the substance into the filters before anyone notices."

"What... what kind of substance?" Trip asked quietly, staring down at the map where Chi'an's finger still rested on the small, pencil-drawn square.

"It's a nerve poison, and will kill anyone inside the complex within minutes. They'll be dead as soon as the poison gets into their lungs."

Silence followed. Trip watched as she folded up the map and slipped it back into her pocket. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.

"Chi'an," he said after a while. "There're hundreds of people workin' in that factory."

"I know." He sensed that her calm tone was only a facade, that she wasn't nearly as indifferent as she pretended to be. "But they're Sar'veen, Tucker. Most of the pharmaceuticals they're producing have been tested on people like your friend, people who suffer and die just so these people can assure their customers there will be no unpleasant side effects to the drugs they're selling. And not all of their products are used for medical purposes. You said you've been on a slave ship. The drugs they gave you there were most likely produced in a factory like this one, designed for the sole purpose of making people compliant and minimizing the risk of a revolt. These people don't give a shit how many of us they're hurting or killing."

"But some of the workers are slaves," Trip said, heat rising in his voice. "You'd be killin' them as well, ever thought of that?"

"Of course I have." Chi'an got up. "Do you know that there are dozens of test subjects killed every day in those labs, and tons of drugs sold all over the planet to be used on people like us, to keep us quiet and under their control? And according to their laws it's perfectly legal what they're doing." She turned around to face him. "I know that innocent people are going to die. But if I have to kill a few dozen to save hundreds of people from being used for tests or abducted into slavery, then I'll do so."

"You mean, you'll make me do so." Trip had gotten up as well. "If I poison the air filters, I'm not goin' to kill a few dozen people. I'm going to kill several hundred of them, and-"

"They're Sar'veen!" Chi'an cheeks were flushed, and her white scars stood out more than ever before. "They wouldn't hesitate to kill you or me, or anyone who wasn't born one of them! Do you know, Tucker, that according to the Sar'veen law an alien doesn't have any more rights than an animal? I read their damn statute books, and it says there that all Sar'veen were created equal, and that they're meant to be the dominant race throughout the galaxy, and all that shit. Any Sar'veen can torture and kill his slaves as he pleases, did you know that?"

"I did." Trip noticed that his hands were shaking. "But I'm not gonna murder all those people, Chi'an. You can't make me do that."

"You are going to do what I say, Tucker." She came to stand right in front of him, her black eyes full of anger and hate. "We have a deal, and you agreed to do this."

"I never agreed to poison a building full of people!" Trip backed away from her, edging closer to the door. "And I'm not gonna-"

"You are." Suddenly she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shoved him up against the wall. Trip tried to squirm away, but Chi'an was faster, pulling out a knife and pressing the tip of its blade against his neck.

"Don't think you can get out of this, Tucker. I helped you save your friend, but that doesn't mean that I can't kill him if you don't keep your part of the bargain. And I'll find you. Even if you run away I'm going to find you, and then I'm going to kill your friend whether you agree to help me or not."

"You bitch," he whispered. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she let go of him, the tip of her knife still pointed at his chest.

"I've been called that before. It changes nothing. I don't want to kill your friend, Tucker, but I will if you don't fulfill your part of the deal. Don't ever think I'm not going to do it."

Trip stared at her and knew that she was telling the truth. This woman would carry out her threat and kill Malcolm, no doubt about that. Slowly, he nodded, his eyes never leaving the knife that was still only centimeters away from his chest.

"Good." She gestured at the door. "Now go, and remember. Tomorrow afternoon."

He backed away, opened the door and stepped outside without ever turning his back to her. The door closed behind him, and for a moment Trip leaned against the wall, eyes closed and heart pounding in his chest. The place where her knife had pierced his skin hurt and as he raised a hand, he brought his fingers away covered in blood.

Tomorrow afternoon. That meant he had still time left, time to think over the few options he had. Running away was not one of them. Malcolm was still too weak, and it would be child's play for Sepek and Chian to find them and drag them back to the camp. Briefly, Trip thought about going back into her room to try and talk to her. But he knew that it was no use. Chi'an would never listen to him, no matter what he said.

He stood there for quite a while, waiting for his heart to slow down again. And finally it occurred to him that there was really only one thing left for him to do.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Reedie (ouch! Hey, don't poke me! Alright, alright, I'm updating ;-)!), Buggles586 (glad you liked it!), Ocean (well, Chi'an threatened him with a knife, so I guess that was why he couldn't fight her), Luna (that's exactly how I see her too), Antares Star (hey, you're back ;-)! Hope some of your question will be answered in this chapter), stage manager (is that an attempt at blackmail ;-)? I hope not... keep reviewing, there won't be (as many) cliffhangers, I promise -g-), dottid (I'm glad you like the story so far - keep reading!), Gabi (Malcolm soll stumm bleiben?? Nein... auf seinen sexy britischen Akzent wollen wir nicht verzichten, oder -g-?), highonscifi (thank you, it's great to hear you're enyoying the story so much), Tata (Freut mich, dass du es gut findest ;-)! Did you get the chapter okay this time?), Romanse (thank you... I'll be updating every three or four days until the story's finished, so don't worry), The Flaming Dragonfly (thank you for your comments on my description of Malcolm's feelings... at first, I was a little unsure how to write a blind and mute person, so this was very encouraging), Exploded Pen (LOL... your review just about killed me ;-)!), bunsdarien (well. I can't have my readers screaming-g-... here comes the update), LoveChilde (you're right, he is (going to do what you said he'd do). I think that's what Trip would do in a situation like that), Maraschino (wait and see ;-)!), Eyes on Tactical (I agree... and thank you for your comment on Chi'an) and WhtevrHpnd2Mary (I see what you mean, but I'm not sure killing these people would actually put a stop to the suffering. Anyway, you're right, Malcolm would certainly agree that "the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few". I'm looking forward to hearing what you think of Trip's response) for reviewing.

Please read and review!

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Chapter 14

"Malcolm!"

The Lieutenant didn't react, and Trip tightened his grip on Reed's shoulder, shaking him gently.

"Malcolm, you gotta wake up!"

Malcolm turned, pulling away and snuggling deeper into the pillow. Trip sighed. Malcolm still needed a lot of sleep, and it was often hard to wake him from his near-comatose slumber. Right now, however, it was crucial that Malcolm woke up and listened to him. Their two roommates could be back any moment, and then any chance to talk in private was lost.

"Malcolm, please. Ya gotta wake up now."

Malcolm blinked sleepily, and Trip sighed in relief. The Lieutenant still kept his eyes open most of the time when he was awake, his unseeing pupils fixed on the empty space in front of him. When he opened his eyes, Trip knew that he was awake, and aware of what was being said.

"Hey," he said, pulling back the covers and helping the Lieutenant to a sitting position. Trip knew that Malcolm liked to sit rather than lie on his back when somebody talked to him, even though it made no difference to him whether they were at eye level or not. "Sleep well?"

Malcolm nodded, his eyebrows raised in a mute question. Of course, the Lieutenant had noticed the urgency in Trip's tone; despite the loss of speech and eyesight, Malcolm was still quite perceptive of what was going on.

Trip decided to waste no more time. "Listen, Mal," he began, keeping his voice low. "we don't have much time, so I'm gonna keep this short. We can't stay here. In fact, we have to get away from here this very evenin'. As I said, there's very little time, and it would take too long to explain all the whys and wherefores, but you gotta trust me on this. We-"

Trip was interrupted by Malcolm's hand grabbing his arm, squeezing it tightly. The Lieutenant was frowning, shaking his head, and Trip knew what Malcolm was trying to tell him. This wasn't going to do; he wanted an explanation.

Even if I can't talk or see, I still want to be told what's going on.

Trip could almost hear the words, and knew it would be unfair and cruel to ignore them. Malcolm had a right to know.

"Alright," he said, wishing he had chosen an earlier point in time to tell Malcolm about these things. Now there was no time for "breaking it gently"; he had to state the plain facts, and hope that Malcolm would be able to deal with them. "Chi'an and I, we had a... bargain. She helped me get you and the others out of that lab, and I promised her to do some sort of business for her. She never told me what this business was about. Not until today." Trip swallowed. "Mal, she wants me to release a poison into a buildin'. That factory where... where they were holdin' you captive. She told me it would kill everybody in there within minutes."

Malcolm sat very still for a moment, then he slowly shook his head. His face seemed to have gone a few shades paler than before.

"No," Trip confirmed. "I'm not gonna do that. And that's why we've gotta get away. Today. We can't stay here any longer, it's too dangerous."

There was no need to tell Malcolm that it was actually his life that was in danger. No need for him to know that Chi'an was using him to threaten Trip into doing what she wanted. This was hard enough for Malcolm as it was. Trip saw the muscles working in the Lieutenant's cheeks, his fingers clenching the sheets in frustration. He knew there were a hundred things Malcolm wanted to tell him now, apologize that he was the reason why Trip had agreed to this bargain in the first place, ask why Trip hadn't told him about all of this before. Malcolm's lips moved, but no sound came out, and it pained Trip to see the helpless anguish on the Lieutenant's face.

"Hey," he said, placing a hand on Reed's thin shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. I've figured out what we're gonna do. But you've gotta help me. I realize that you're still not feelin' well, but if this is supposed to work, you've gotta trust me. Okay?"

Malcolm took a deep breath, then nodded his head yes. Trip knew that it didn't sit well with the Lieutenant to be totally dependent on another person, to be unable to contribute anything to their escape other than quietly coming along, and he was glad Malcolm was taking this so well. If the Lieutenant had reacted with fear or even panic to the news, Trip would have been lost.

"Great," he said, sounding far more confident than he actually felt. "Now... do you remember the flitter we took you back to the camp in?"

Malcolm nodded.

"We're gonna steal it." Trip bit his lip. "It's warp-capable, just like Orven's shuttle, and I'm gonna try and take us out into space."

Spoken aloud, his plan sounded even crazier, like an idea born out of desperation which didn't have the remotest chance of success. Still, it was the only option he saw.

"We're gonna leave tonight. It's my turn to keep watch outside; I talked to Lem and persuaded him to swap shifts. We'll be long gone before they notice that something's goin' on. But... I won't be able to come back inside and get you." Trip watched Malcolm's face for any signs of unease as he continued. "We'll have to take you to the flitter now, and you'll have to hide in there and wait for me. You okay with that?"

Malcolm nodded immediately, an almost impatient gesture that seemed to say _I'll be fine, stop worrying about me_. Then, however, his eyebrows drew together, and he gestured vaguely at his surroundings. Trip understood.

"Yeah, they mustn't notice, that's right. But I think we'll be okay if we take you outside now. They're all gone except for T'Min, and she is sleepin'. I'm supposed to be workin' on the flitter's systems. If we do meet somebody, I'll just say I wanted to check on you and take you for a walk. And then we'll try again later."

Malcolm nodded, and surprised Trip by swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Easy, Mal. We still have to get you dressed."

Quietly, they went about the business of getting Malcolm into his clothes, and again Trip noticed a certain impatience in the Lieutenant's behavior. Malcolm had no way of expressing his feelings verbally, but still, Trip knew only too well how embarrassed the Lieutenant felt about being dressed like a small child. Noticing Malcolm's thin lips and flushed cheeks whenever he had to rely on Trip's help in this way, Trip had stopped helping him into his shirts and trousers and only handed him the different pieces of clothing the right way around. It often took Malcolm several attempts, but he seemed to prefer this rather awkward way of dressing himself rather than relying on help. Trip knew he would feel the same in Malcolm's place, but right now, they didn't have time for that. Malcolm seemed to understand, but still pressed his lips together when Trip picked up his feet to slip the socks over them.

When they were done, Trip took a blanket from his own bed, rolled it up and placed it on Malcolm's bed, adding two more pillows at the foot of the bunk. Then he covered it with Malcolm's sheets, arranging it in a way that it vaguely resembled a person lying covered from head to foot with a blanket. It didn't look very convincing, but then, Trip was quite sure neither of their roommates would notice.

Malcolm stood next to the bed, waiting patiently until Trip was done.

"Guess that's as good as it gets." With a last doubtful glance at the bed, Trip took Malcolm's hand and helped him close his fingers around his upper arm for guidance. "Listen, Mal, there's nothin' to worry about. I'll let you know immediately when someone sees us."

Malcolm's fingers tightened around his arm, and Trip knew that the Lieutenant had understood. Careful to keep the curtain out of Malcolm's way, Trip led him out of the room and into the main hall. Malcolm showed no visible signs of anxiety; cautiously and methodically he set one foot in front of the other, following Trip's guidance and at the same time stretching out his free hand to avoid bumping into furniture.

The kitchen area was empty except for T'Min, who was dozing on a chair next to the old-fashioned sink. It was supposed to be her job to take care of the dishes, but as usual she ignored the stacks of dirty plates and glasses in order to have one of her extended afternoon naps. After working as a kitchen slave for more than forty years, the old Vulcan detested any kind of activity that involved housework, and mostly pretended not to understand when someone reminded her of her neglected dishwashing chores.

Trip heard her sigh and mutter in her sleep, and knew that there was no danger of her waking up any time soon. Quietly, they made their way through the kitchen area to the stairway that led to the entrance of the building.

"We're gonna have to walk up the stairs," Trip whispered, stopping Malcolm before he stumbled on the first step. "D'ya want me to carry y-"

Malcolm shook his head emphatically, and his fingers tightened on Trip's arm as if to say _No way_. Trip had expected no different.

"Alright," he said. "Be careful, the steps are somewhat uneven. There you go."

Even though there was no banister rail to hold on to, Malcolm managed to climb the stairs without stumbling. Their slow progress was making Trip nervous, but at the same time he was glad to see a glimpse of Malcolm's old, bristly self returning. Malcolm Reed would not be carried up the stairs by a superior officer, even if it meant running the risk of falling and breaking a leg. No way.

Once they had reached the landing, Trip took a brief look around. T'Min was still snoring away on her chair, and the room was quiet.

"Let's go," he said, and when Malcolm nodded opened the door. The entrance to the camp's main living area led into a deserted backstreet lined by the dilapidated houses that featured this part of the city. It was late afternoon and darkness was beginning to fall, seeming to come from within the broken buildings. A cool breeze was blowing, and Malcolm shivered.

"I've hidden a few blankets in the flitter," Trip whispered. "This way."

He guided Malcolm to an old shed across the street, the place where the fugitives had hidden their shuttle. Its front looked no different from that of the other buildings, a dirt-stained wall with two broken windows and a small wooden door.

Instead of using the front entrance, however, Trip led Malcolm around the building, careful so that the Lieutenant's feet didn't get caught in the garbage that littered the ground. The shed's back wall had been destroyed by a bomb, leaving an opening that was large enough even for an inexperienced pilot to take the flitter in and out.

"I don't think any of them will come in here today," Trip said quietly as he helped Malcolm climb through the opening. "I told them I was gonna bring the last system's up to scratch, and that it was gonna take some time. I s'pose I'll be okay if I stay here for a little while."

Left unsaid was the fact that Trip felt rather reluctant to leave Malcolm alone in his present condition. The Lieutenant was still suffering from the after-effects of the drugs, his metabolism still weakened by the alien substances he had been injected with. Whenever he experienced one of those flashbacks, Malcolm became totally unresponsive, staring into empty space with unseeing eyes and groaning occasionally when another painful tremor shook his body. Afterwards he usually slept for several hours, then woke up feeling sick and disoriented. Trip hated the idea of Malcolm being alone when he needed help after one of his drug-induced blackouts.

He opened the flitters hatch's, then turned back to Malcolm who was trying - and failing - to hide the shivers that were running through his body.

"You wanna climb inside yourself?" Trip asked - rhetorically, of course; he knew what Malcolm's answer was going to be. Malcolm nodded, and Trip guided him to the hatch, supporting him as the Lieutenant pulled himself inside.

Trip followed and closed the hatch behind them. Inside, he opened one of the storage compartments, took out a blanket and wrapped it around Malcolm's shoulders while he helped him sit down in one of the chairs.

"Better?"

Malcolm nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and gradually, the shivering subsided. Trip took a brief look around the flitter. Nothing had changed, and yet Trip had spent the greatest part of the day preparing their escape. In his toolbox, he had taken several packages of dried food into the flitter, hiding them in the storage hold in the back where he'd already stowed away ten liters of bottled water. Trip knew ten liters were not enough by far if their journey took more than a few days, but it was the best he could do without Lerin noticing that some of her kitchen supplies had gone missing. He'd also stolen several blankets and pillows and hidden them under the pilot chair, as well as a bucket since the flitter didn't have any toilet facilities. There was going to be no way for them to empty the bucket, but Trip decided that the smell was probably the last thing they needed to worry about.

"I think we've got everything so far," he said, briefly considering if they could risk starting right here and now, since none of the campers were in sight. But no, he decided. It was safer to wait until it got dark. Suddenly the corner of his mouth twitched when he remembered something. "I'm afraid I didn't manage to install a shower this time, either," he said, and to his surprise he saw the ghost of a smile cross Malcolm's lips.

Trip did a last check-up of the flitter's systems while he kept talking to Malcolm, telling him about his plan to scan for the next inhabited planet as soon as they had gone to warp. He knew their escape was a leap into the dark - he had no idea whether there were any inhabited planets anywhere within the next fifteen light years - but there was no need to mention it. Malcolm knew as well as he did that yet again, their escape was a desperate and hasty one, with little chance of success.

Twenty minutes later Trip got up, wiping his hands on his trousers. With a little luck, the systems were going to withstand the engaging of the warp engine, and with even more luck, they would be able to maintain a steady warp field for more than only a few hours. He looked at Malcolm who was still sitting in his chair, wrapped up in his blanket.

"I've gotta go back, Mal," he said, then hesitated, hoping the Lieutenant wasn't going to be bothered by his next suggestion. "Maybe... maybe it'd be better if you hid in the storage hold while I'm gone. I'm quite sure none of them will come in here, but I don't want to risk them finding you."

Malcolm nodded, and his face didn't betray how he felt about being locked into a cargo hold yet again, this time by his best friend. He allowed Trip to help him up, and never let any of his feelings show through as he crawled into the small space in the back of the flitter. Trip helped him find a more or less comfortable position, then picked up one of the water bottles and closed Malcolm's hand around it.

"Drink as much as you want," he said. "I'll try to be back as soon as I can, okay?"

Malcolm nodded, and for a moment, Trip let his hand rest on Reed's fingers before he pulled it back. He knew Malcolm's calm facade was only a sham. Aside from the loss of speech and eyesight, Malcolm whimpered and moaned enough in his sleep for Trip to make some educated guesses as to how much physical and emotional pain the Lieutenant was still hiding away behind those stoic features. But this was Malcolm's way, and even though it was cruel, stoicism was exactly what they needed at the moment.

Watching Malcolm lean back and close his eyes, Trip closed the door of the storage hold and let out a small sigh. Time to go back.

XXX

Trip spent the evening sitting at one of the tables in the kitchen area, watching the other campers come back from their various daily occupations. As usual, most of them only stopped in the kitchen area to grab some supper and took their plates to the back of the room to eat. He watched Vern warm up Rish's milk on the stove, and smiled when the baby almost knocked down the bowl in her eagerness to get her supper.

Trip knew it would be best for him to eat his fill while he was still able to do so, but there was no way he could keep anything down. His thoughts kept returning to Malcolm back in the flitter, and he felt a hard, cold knot sitting in the pit of his stomach. If something - anything - happened to him, then Malcolm was dead. It was as simple as that. The campers would not hesitate to kill both of them, Trip had no doubt about that. In a way, he couldn't even blame them. He was about to steal one of their most valuable possessions, was betraying their trust after several of them had risked their lives to help him save Malcolm. No, he couldn't really blame them that they were going to hate him for what he was doing.

"Tucker."

Trip started badly, and realized that Chi'an had been standing next to him for quite a while. When she brushed back a strand of black hair that had fallen into her forehead, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She had left the camp early in the morning together with Sepek and Zha'Khor, and he hadn't expected her to be back before his watch started.

"Did you finish with the flitter's engines?"

He nodded, forcing his voice to sound calm. _She can't possibly know_. "I'm done."

"Good." She regarded him closely. "Is your friend feeling better?"

He met her eyes, and read the unspoken warning there. She wasn't going to say anything, but then, she didn't need to. He could still feel the place where her knife had pierced his skin, and knew that nothing had changed about her threat to kill Malcolm if he didn't obey her.

"He is okay," Trip said. "Still sleepin' a lot."

Chi'an held his gaze. "I want you to come to my room first thing in the morning," she said. "We need to talk about tomorrow afternoon."

Trip considered, then decided to try one last time. "Chi'an..." he began, but she cut him off.

"First thing in the morning," she repeated. "I expect you to be there."

She turned away, clearly indicating that she considered their conversation to be over. Trip watched her disappear in her room, and briefly thought of how she was going to react when she found out what he had done. He doubted that she would be disappointed; Chi'an seemed long past placing her trust in anyone, let alone being disappointed if that trust was betrayed. No, her reaction would probably be brief anger, and, eventually, hate, the one emotion that seemed to keep her alive. She was going to hate him, and maybe next time when she found another run-away on the street she would turn away, having learned her lesson not to help anyone who was only going to betray her in the end.

Trip closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his hands. One after another, the few people who had still been in the kitchen area left, disappearing behind the curtains into their rooms. He could hear the rustling of fabric and their quiet voices as they got ready for bed.

He waited until the last one had turned off their light, then gathered up his jacket and got up. His watch ended at three in the morning, which meant that he had exactly four hours left.

His heart pounding, Trip picked up his rifle and headed for the stairs, the handle of the weapon feeling cold in his hand. He had no wish to use the gun, but was ready to do so if it came down to this. He wasn't going to give up without a fight.

As he opened the door, he noticed that it was even colder than before. The sky was clear, and the two moons were both full, two pale red orbs so close to one another they were almost touching. Trip shut the door behind himself, gripping his rifle harder.

And whirled around when he heard quiet steps coming up the stairs behind the door. He backed away, slowly, realizing that he wouldn't stand a chance if he turned around and ran.

The door opened, and when Trip recognized the person standing in the doorway, he involuntarily loosened his grip on his gun.

"Lanja."

The Xyrillian nodded, quietly closing the door behind him.

"I went to check on your friend earlier this evening." There was no particular expression on his face as he said it, but still, Trip felt the color drain from his cheeks. So he knew.

"Lanja," he began, but the Xyrillian raised a hand.

"Don't," he said. "There's no need to explain. I know what she is planning to do. She had me check the substances earlier today, make sure they really are what they're supposed to be."

Trip heard the barely hidden disgust in the older man's voice. "She told you?"

"Yes. She said you're the only one who has the knowledge to get access to the filters."

A short silence followed. "I can't do that, Lanja," Trip said finally, hoping desperately that the Xyrillian would understand. "I know we had a deal, but... I can't murder all those people. She... she threatened to kill Malcolm if I refused to follow her orders. And I think she would do it, too."

"She would," Lanja said immediately. "I know she would." He paused. "She'd do anything if she thought it was protecting her people."

"I can't stay." Trip looked over his shoulder at the shed. "Lanja..."

"I'm not going to tell her," the Xyrillian said. "But I won't be able to protect you if she finds you and brings you back. You know that, Tucker."

"She's not gonna find us. We're leavin' the planet."

Lanja's eyes widened. "You're going to take the flitter out into space?"

"Yes." Trip hesitated. "Why don't you come with us? Try and find your family-"

"No." Lanja's voice was firm. "I understand why you need to get away from here, but I can't. I've been living in the camp for more than six years, Tucker. They're my family. Maybe you can't understand that, but even Chi'an is my family. I can't just leave them behind. I belong here."

Trip nodded, slowly. He understood. He had seen the way the doctor took care of his fellow campers, how he saw to it that every single one of them got the best medical care he could provide with his limited equipment.

"I'm sorry," he said. Lanja seemed to understand what he was apologizing for.

"It's better if you leave," he said. "Maybe, eventually, she'll find a way of releasing the poison herself, but not tomorrow. Or this week."

Trip met his eyes, and knew what the Xyrillian was telling him. If he left now, there was still a chance. There was a chance that someone convinced Chi'an to change her mind, and if that failed, there was a chance that the poison might be contaminated and rendered useless. However small it might be.

"There's a cardboard box under my bunk," he said. "The money we stole from our... from the Sar'veen we ran away from. It's not enough to buy a new flitter, but maybe you can use it to stock up on your medical supplies. Or somethin'."

"Or something." For the first time, a small smile crossed Lanja's lips. "Thank you. And, Tucker..."

Trip looked back at him. "Yeah?"

"Good luck."

He smiled in response, and watched as the Xyrillian turned to leave. The door was closed again, quietly, but Trip was already on his way across the street. He trusted Lanja, but still, there was no time to lose.

After he had closed the flitter's hatch behind him, the first thing he did was free Malcolm from his hiding place in the storage hold. The Lieutenant had fallen asleep, and awoke with a start when Trip opened the door.

"It's okay," he said. "Nothin' to worry about. It's me, Trip."

He took the unopened water bottle from Malcolm's hands, and helped him crawl out of the small room.

"We're gonna be fine," he said, not sure whether he was reassuring Malcolm or himself. "No one noticed."

Later, there would be time enough to tell Malcolm about Lanja. Right now, Trip knew it would only upset the Lieutenant to know that someone had found out about their escape, after all. Malcolm seemed a little stiff, which wasn't surprising after more than five hours of sitting curled up in a cramped cargo hold. Trip helped him sit down in the chair next to the pilot's seat, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders.

"You okay?"

Malcolm nodded (as if Malcolm Reed would admit to it if he _wasn't _okay), but Trip noticed the way his hands clenched the blanket, and the hard set of his jaw. Malcolm was afraid. Trip could sympathize - his own hands were shaking as he pressed the buttons to boost up the engines - but he didn't say anything. Telling the silence about his fears wouldn't do any good, neither for him nor for Malcolm who had no way of answering.

The flitter took off with a slight shudder, and Trip found the navigation controls to react better than he had expected as he steered the vessel through the small opening in the shed's back wall.

"Here we go," he said quietly, pulling the flitter's nose up, and felt a slight tremor go through the small craft as it accelerated. The dark houses below grew smaller as the flitter gained height, and the sight caused a sudden wild triumph within him. They were getting away. Leaving this goddamn planet, good bye and good riddance for all it was worth. Looking over at Malcolm, Trip saw that the Lieutenant's features had relaxed, an almost-smile crossing his lips as he leaned back in his chair. And he felt an answering grin spread on his own face.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Gabi (hoffentlich klappts diesmal mit dem Alert), The Flaming Dragonfly (thank you so much, it means a lot to get feedback like that), Tata (ja, Malcolm geht es wieder besser ;-)... hope you can still read the chapter before you leave), Antares Star (well, they did escape, but whether it's going to be easy... read and see ;-) ), KaliedescopeCat (you should have Trip over to repair your chair ;-)...on second thought, why waste any time having him -repairing chairs-... sorry, couldn't resist ;-) ), Buggles 586 (maybe ;-)...), Luna (as I said, maybe it's not going to be so easy, after all), highonscifi (I dare say I have...), stage manager (blackmail me all you want, as long as you keep reviewing -g-), Ocean (we'll see about that...), Rinne (glad you liked them!), Reedie (good guess... well, there are going to be -some- similarities), AquaSox (sorry about the delay... fanfiction net seems to be having server trouble lately, and has been down for some time), LoveChilde (keep your fingers crossed is all I can say -g-) and Eyes on Tactical (the boys do need a break, don't they?) for reviewing.

Please read and review!

------------------------

Chapter 15

Stars.

It seemed he never got tired of watching them. Some might think it dull, a waste of time to be watching those white streaks of light passing by, but Trip found that the sight gave him a sense of peace. The pattern never changed - a small shining dot in the very middle of the view screen which turned into a bright line, whizzing past and finally disappearing at the very edge of his vision. The universe at warp speed. In its own way, it was a beautiful sight.

During the last three days, Trip had spend a lot of time sitting in the pilot chair, checking the controls from time to time, and the rest of the time just gazing at the stars. Letting his thoughts drift. Thinking of nothing at all.

It wasn't that he had to sit here; the flitter was running on autopilot, and so far, there hadn't been so much as a sensor glitch. Not even a malfunctioning circuit. Somehow, miraculously, the engines were coping with the warp speed, and coping better than he had dared to hope. Which was fortunate; so far the scanners hadn't picked up any inhabited planets within the near vicinity. Ever since they had left K'tera, most of the systems they had passed featured one dimly glowing sun and a few barren rocks that passed for its planets. No M-class worlds, no colonized asteroids. Nothing.

In a way, watching the stars had become his way of easing his mind. There was so much buried beneath the surface that threatened to come up at times, and the fact that they were in unknown space, heading for an unknown destination, wasn't helping. Sometimes, Trip wondered what they were going to do when their water supplies ran short and there was still no planet in sight. They had still seven of the ten bottles left, but even seven liters of water wouldn't last forever. They drank as little of it as possible, but seven liters were seven liters. Malcolm still needed a steady supply of fluids, and it wouldn't do for him to drink less than half a liter a day.

Well, Trip thought wryly, at least this gave them something to do. Arguing about Malcolm's water consumption (or lack thereof) had become a steady part of their daily routine, and he had soon found out that despite the loss of speech the Lieutenant was still able to put up quite a fight.

Instead of getting sarky, Malcolm would simply press his lips together and pull his hand away when Trip tried to give him a glass of water, shaking his head in that infuriating, stubborn way of his. At times, Trip had come close to shouting at the man; they still had several liters left, for God's sake, and Malcolm needed the water. But the Lieutenant simply ignored this fact, drinking two glasses a day and not a single drop more. At one point, Trip had actually lost his temper, and accused Malcolm of being careless about his health. Malcolm's lips had become a thin, angry line, and Trip knew only too well what his answer would have been, had the Lieutenant been able to talk.

Still, in a way Trip was glad to see part of Malcolm's old self returning. Malcolm was still blind and not talking, but the flashbacks became fewer as the days went by, and he was less pale, less disoriented than he had been. He didn't tire as easily anymore, and was beginning to move around the shuttle on his own, using his hands for orientation. Trip was surprised how well the Lieutenant knew his way around a place he had never laid eyes on.

Trip wasn't fooling himself. The superficial treatment Lanja had been able to provide would only heal Malcolm's physical injuries; his psyche was an entirely different thing. Malcolm had been terribly hurt in body and mind, and waiting for these wounds to take care of themselves was pulling the wool over both their eyes.

It wasn't easy, of course. Sometimes, Trip believed the silence interrupted only by his own voice was going to drive him crazy, and when he woke up, sweating, the image of the dead woman crashing into that table still vivid in his mind's eye, he often wished there was someone he could talk to, someone who would not only listen but also respond. But Malcolm couldn't, and Trip wasn't going to burden him with his nightmares on top of everything else. At these times, he simply got up and looked out at the stars, waiting for the images to fade. And after a while, he found, they usually did.

Not this time, however. The dream had been bad; no, worse than that. It had been horrible. Trip had woken up soaked in sweat and trembling, and to his dismay he had found that his cheeks were wet, as was the blanket he had used for a pillow. For a moment or two he had lain in silence and listened to his heart pounding in his chest. Then he had gotten up, thrown a brief look at Malcolm who was sleeping peacefully for once, and had gone to sit in the pilot chair, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders to keep himself from shivering. Trip always felt cold when he woke up from one of those wretched dreams.

The dreams. They always began with the same image; the lab, the rifle in his hand, Chi'an ordering him to shoot. The woman knocking over the table with the lab samples as he hit her in the back. Then blood, sticky orange blood spreading on every surface until it covered the floor and his feet. But it wouldn't stop, rising and rising until they stood waist-deep in it. His feet were caught in the mudlike substance, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move, had to watch helplessly as the blood rose to his chest and further up to his neck. It smelled just like human blood and tasted like it too when it got into his mouth, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't pull in a goddamn breath of air, the sticky liquid filling his lungs and throat and mouth until it closed over his head and he was buried alive in a sea of blood.

That was when he usually woke up, shaking, telling himself that it hadn't been real, that the vile taste in his mouth was not real either, that none of the Sar'veen blood had ever come near his lips. And after a while he even believed it.

This time, however, it had been different. The image had changed and suddenly he had been able to breathe again. He had been able to breathe, but for some reason unable to move, and then he realized that he was back on his knees, tied to the fence that surrounded Orven's patio. He heard the crowd behind him laughing, and then a white bolt of pain seemed to rip him in two when the whip was brought down for the first time. The crowd laughed at his suffering, and he hated them, hated them so much, and hated himself for screaming out loud when he couldn't bear it any longer. They laughed even harder, and suddenly he could see their faces. Human faces. The crew of the Enterprise. They were laughing, calling him names, and there were Malcolm and Jon standing next to him, both grinning when they saw the tears on his face.

"Now that was a lesson he won't soon forget," Malcolm said, and the words echoed in his mind, even when he had already awoken with a start.

A lesson he won't soon forget.

Trip rested his forehead on the edge of the console, and tried to will away the image. The dried tears itched on his skin, so he wet a finger on his tongue and began to rub them off. They couldn't waste any of their limited water supplies for washing, and Trip wasn't surprised when his finger came away smeared with dirt. For a moment he thought how the cool water would feel on his hot, sweaty face, then shook off the idea. The smell in the shuttle was getting worse, a combined mixture of sweat, damp clothes and urine from the toilet bucket, but it was best not to think about it. There was nothing they could do about it, anyway.

A sound in the back caught his attention. It started as a low whimper, then grew louder into a sob. Malcolm was crying in his sleep. Again.

For a moment or so Trip simply sat there, gathering his strength, then he got up and walked over to where Malcolm was sleeping on the floor. Or rather, tossing and turning on the floor. The Lieutenant had wrapped himself up in a wild tangle of blankets, and only part of his face was still visible. Trip could see tears welling out from under his closed eyelids, and as he approached, Malcolm tried to raise his hands, struggling when the blankets got in his way. Between the sobs, he gasped for air as if he were in pain, and it wasn't hard for Trip to guess what the nightmare was about.

"Malcolm!" He knew Malcolm always startled at his touch when he was dreaming, and so he carefully pulled aside the blanket, gently closing his fingers around the Lieutenant's shoulder. "Malcolm, wake up! It's only a dream. They're gone. Nobody's gonna hurt you anymore."

Malcolm stiffened at the contact, but did not wake up.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm's eyes flew open, still dreaming and wide with fear. The plain terror in his eyes stirred something within Trip, and suddenly his own nightmare was back, the pain and hate and humiliation that wouldn't go away, no matter how often he told himself that the dreams were not real. Dealing with Malcolm's pain as well, reassuring him and talking in a soothing voice until he went back to sleep was suddenly too much, and Trip did the only thing he could think of. He gathered Malcolm into his arms and held him, hoping the physical contact would provide some comfort, at least. After only a short moment the Lieutenant grew still, the sobs and gasps subsiding. He relaxed against Trip, his wet face buried in Trip's shoulder, his shoulders still shaking slightly when he drew in another hitching breath. Trip didn't let go, realizing that he needed this almost as much as Malcolm did. Their touch wasn't about physical attraction, it wasn't even about friendship; it was the simple need to know that they weren't alone, like two frightened animals huddling together in a lightning storm.

Trip felt Malcolm shake his head, an almost imperceptible movement, and understood.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "We're such a mess, aren't we?"

Malcolm took another shaking breath, then nodded. Trip smiled slightly and continued to rock slowly back and forward, losing himself in the movement. After a while Malcolm's breathing grew quiet again, but he made no move to disentangle himself from Trip's embrace. And Trip also found himself feeling strangely reluctant to let go. It would be so easy not to, so easy stay like that and maybe allow their desperate clinging together to turn into something else - something neither of them wanted nor had ever considered, something that would only happen because they were both so desperate to feel good again, no matter how shortlived that feeling would be.

No. No need to add this to the long list of things that they needed to forget about, a thing that would only be the source of pain and shame in the future. Very carefully, he let go of Malcolm, and the Lieutenant sat back, his eyes still red from crying. Trip saw the traces the tears had left in the dirt on his face. For a moment, neither of them moved, then Malcolm nodded once. And Trip understood. There was enough hurt already.

He got up. "Think you can go back to sleep?"

Malcolm nodded, and for once, Trip didn't ask him if he wanted a glass of water. He knew what the Lieutenant's answer would be, anyway. He picked up his blanket, thinking he might just as well spend a few more hours in the pilot chair -

- and suddenly the shuttle was shaken by a strong lurch. Malcolm gasped for air and Trip stumbled, seeing at the same time how several lights lit up on the helm console. And then he saw them on the scanners. A ship, approaching their position. Firing at them. A Sar'veen ship.

"Goddammit!"

Not bothering to explain to Malcolm what was happening, Trip was at the helm in one single stride. For one terrible moment, he didn't remember which sign symbolized the speed control, but then it came back to him and with trembling hands he pressed the button. Warp four. Malcolm had scrambled to his feet and was holding on to the back rest of the pilot chair, his face white.

"It's them," Trip said, and clutched the edge of the helm as the flitter lurched again. "They're hailin' us."

Briefly, his hand hesitated over the board, then he opened a channel, not really thinking about what he was doing. A male voice came from the speaker.

"We've picked up no Sar'veen life signs aboard your vessel," it said. "Drop out of warp, and we will not destroy you."

Now this is when I hold my "liberty or death" speech, Trip thought with a frantic touch of humor, but what came out was something entirely different.

"Fuck off!"

The answer was another lurch as they fired again. Trip didn't even try to use the flitters weapons, knowing their range wasn't wide enough to hit the vessel which was still several thousand kilometers away.

He increased their speed again - warp 5 - and heard the flitter creak and groan as it adjusted to a speed it wasn't designed for. Malcolm was still gripping the back rest of the chair, the muscles in his jaw working.

"They're gettin' closer." Panic crept into his voice. "Dammit, Mal, they're-"

"Drop out of warp!" Trip had forgotten that the channel was still open. "This vessel and its cargo are the property of the Sar'veen Dominion, and will not be illegally removed from Sar'veen space!"

Trip felt a surge of hate that momentarily blotted out his panic. "We're not your property!" he yelled into the speaker. "Do you hear me, we're not-"

A crackling sound indicated that they had closed the channel. The flitter shook again, harder this time. The hull plating wasn't going to withstand these weapon blasts forever, and the Sar'veen ship was steadily drawing closer. Knowing that this might as well blow up the engines, Trip pressed the panel again. Warp 6. Faster than any human had gone before, and still not fast enough. The thought caused a burst of hysterical laughter to rise in Trip's throat, but he bit down on it. Not this time, he thought. This time you won't get us.

The flitter groaned and the Sar'veen fired again. Trip wasn't able to understand most of the readings on the displays, but knew that it would take only one or two more hits like that to either destroy them or leave them drifting aimlessly in space.

"They're not going to get us," he said, hardly noticing that his voice was cracking. "I still got the rifle. They're not going to get us this time."

At that point, he finally became aware of Malcolm's hand squeezing his arm. The Lieutenant's face was flushed, his lips parted, and he seemed to be desperately trying to say something.

No sound came out, and Trip saw tears of frustration well up in Malcolm's eyes.

"Mal..."

The Lieutenant grabbed his arm again, hard, and stepped closer to the console, one hand extended so his finger tips touched the smooth metal. And then Malcolm began to write, his shaking finger drawing invisible letters on the surface of the console. Two words. Plasma fire.

Trip's breath caught in his throat as he understood.

During one of Malcolm's tactical briefings, years ago, the Lieutenant had mentioned a trick to shake off enemy pursuers. A crazy and dangerous trick, and Trip had only been half joking when he threatened to have Malcolm's head if he ever tried such a thing with Enterprise's warp engine. He remembered Malcolm's indignantly raised eyebrow.

"Releasing part of the warp plasma into space will hardly do any damage to the engines, Commander."

"No," Trip had retorted. "But firin' at it may just as well rip off one of the warp nacelles."

The idea was to light a gigantic plasma torch right behind the ship, then get away at top speed while your pursuers flew right into the exploding ball of fire which - hopefully - did the greatest possible damage to their engines. A crazy idea indeed. One worthy of an explosion-loving Lieutenant whose disregard for the safety of Trip's beloved engines was disturbing at times.

Another glance at the display told Trip that the Sar'veen ship was now close enough to destroy them with a single blast of their weapons. But they had stopped firing, and a moment later he realized why. Of course. They were the property of the Sar'veen Dominion, and you didn't destroy your property if it might still be of use to you.

Trip did a quick calculation in his head. "Ten thousand meters."

Malcolm acknowledged this with a nod. When the Sar'veen ship was only ten thousand meters away, there would be no way for them to dodge the explosion.

"Fifty percent of the plasma should be enough," Trip said, but Malcolm shook his head, holding up his left hand and extending two fingers on his right. Seventy percent.

The idea of losing seventy percent of their warp plasma didn't sit well with Trip, but there was no time to argue. He had to trust Malcolm on this one.

"Fifteen thousand meters and approachin'," he announced. Malcolm's hands were clenched to fists.

"Twelve thousand."

Trip's hand was hovering over the controls, and he could smell the sweaty fear that filled the shuttle. Come on, he thought. Just a little closer. Just a little...

"Ten thousand!"

Malcolm brought his hand down on the console, and Trip hit the panel, watching the display's indicator drop as most of their warp plasma was expelled into space. He wasted no time, aimed and fired, and a split second later was thrown out of his chair as the blast of the explosion hit the flitter. The small craft shook and lurched, and with shaking legs, Trip climbed back into the pilot chair to check the displays. And let out a wild, triumphant cry.

"Malcolm!" Trip whirled around, grabbed Malcolm's shoulders and shook him. "They're driftin'! The explosion disabled their engines! You did it!"

He was laughing and crying at the same time, hugging Malcolm, and for the first time in ages saw a real grin spread on the Lieutenant's dirty, tear-stained face. On the display, the distance between their shuttle and the Sar'veen ship was growing larger, and soon their pursuers were only a small mark on the very edge of the screen.

XXX

"Want some more?"

Trip took another piece of dried fruit out of their ration bag, but Malcolm shook his head. Judging from the Lieutenant's grimace, he didn't care much for the taste of dried _kel'ho_, and Trip couldn't blame him. The stuff did taste like something fished out of a puddle on a rainy day. Maybe that was just as well; you couldn't eat more than four or five of these things without feeling sick, which meant that they had still quite a supply left.

Trip leaned back against the bulkhead behind him and watched Malcolm wash down the awful fruit with a sip of water.

"Too bad we don't have any bourbon," he said. "Might kill the taste."

Malcolm smiled, and Trip felt a silly grin tug at his own lips. It was eight hours ago that they had left the Sar'veen ship behind - no sign of them ever since - and even though the first euphoria had worn off, he still caught himself smiling for no reason at all. The sight of the Sar'veen ship drifting in space kept coming back to his mind, never mind that they had only been a reading on a small display, and he felt like laughing out loud every time he thought about it, wishing he'd seen the face of the bastard in the captain's chair when a cloud of plasma fire had suddenly enveloped their view screen.

He was pretty sure that by now they had left the Sar'veen space behind. They had met no other ships after that first one, which Trip guessed had been a patrol ship guarding the border of the Sar'veen territory. Or maybe even a slave ship returning from its latest "tour".

In the meantime, Malcolm had finished his water, and Trip leaned forward to pick up the glass. The _kel'ho_ fruit had left a bad taste in his mouth, and since he couldn't brush his teeth, a mouthful of water would have to do. He poured himself a glass, then set the now-empty bottle aside.

"You know, Mal," he said between sips, "that was pretty fast thinkin' of you back then. That trick with the plasma, and... writin' it down on the console."

He always felt a little reluctant to bring up the topic of Malcolm not being able to talk, but the Lieutenant didn't seem to mind. His cheeks flushed with pride, and he smiled a little, shrugging and gesturing in Trip's direction.

"Uh-uh," Trip said, knowing what Malcolm was trying to tell him. "You thought of that trick, and you knew how much plasma we had to release to do the job right; I only did what you told me to do. It's thanks to you that we're still sittin' here."

Again, Malcolm shook his head, more emphatically this time. But Trip saw that at the same time the Lieutenant was proud of what he had done. Remembering the frightened and desperate man he had woken from his nightmare only a little more than eight hours ago, he smiled. So much had changed in a very short time, and for the first time Trip had a feeling that they were going to be alright. Both of them.

Setting down his glass again, he stretched and gathered up one of the blankets.

"I think I'm gonna get me some sleep." He yawned. "I'm dead b-"

A bleep from the helm console interrupted him. They froze at the sound, and Trip felt like he had been punched in the chest.

_That's not fair_.

The sound repeated itself, and somehow, Trip managed to get to his feet. And felt his hands grow cold when he saw the readings.

"Oh my God."

The ship was huge, at least six times as large as the other ship had been, and he knew at once that this time, they weren't going to escape. They wouldn't even survive a single hit from these weapons.

The console was still beeping, and Trip realized that they were being hailed. He hesitated, maybe it would be best not to answer and get this over with quickly. But the beeping persisted, and Trip decided that it probably didn't matter either way.

A moment's silence followed after he had opened a channel, neither of them daring to move or breathe. Then a calm, emotionless voice began to speak.

"This is the Vulcan science vessel _S'task_. Are you in need of assistance?"

Trip stared. And then, helplessly, he began to laugh.

TBC....

Please let me know what you think!


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Reedie (happy endings? hmmm... we'll see ;-) ), LoveChilde (I agree with you, taking this story in a slashy direction wouldn't work), CordeliaBlack (maybe not in this chapter (the reunion), but they boys are going to be home soon), Antares Star (Vulcans go go go. I'm a fan of everything to do with Vulcans, so they just -had- to be in the story -g-), Luna (of course they will ;-) ), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (thank you, I always love your comments (I think I said so before ;-) ). About the "flitter" thing, I was actually looking for an English equivalent for the German word "Gleiter". (Since English isn't my first language, it's often the German words that first come to my mind). I think I picked up the term in a TOS-Story, and yes, it means something like "aircar" or "shuttle". I think ;-). ), Ocean (oh yes, the smell... poor Vulcans -g-), Buggles 586 (poor Malcolm, he's not even home yet, and you're already volunteering him as a victim ;-) ), highonscifi (well, there are still a few chapters left!), stage manager (thank you! Malcolm and Trip both have issues to deal with, that's right... as I said, still a few chapters left), Rinne (hey, it wasn't -exactly- a cliffhanger ;-)! ), The Flaming Dragonfly (glad you liked it so much... now there's still all the H/C that has to be dealt with), KaliedescopeCat (I agree ;-)!), Maraschino (well, maybe he's going to need a little help...), sezzyc (I think I've heard that one before ;-) ), RoaringMice (thank you!), Romanse (glad you say so - it wasn't easy cramming both aspects into one chapter), Eyes on Tactical (go on speculating ;-)... you're right, now to deal with Malcolm), Gabi (danke! Trotz kleiner Meinungsverschiedenheit habe ich die Diskussion um das Kapitel sehr genossen) and Tata (read and find out!) for reviewing!

Sorry about my rambling ;-)... please read and review!

-----------------------

Chapter 16

Captain Sorvik, commander of the science vessel _S'task_ and former chairman of the Vulcan Science Academy, was concerned. He was a Vulcan long past any youthful emotionalism - the 173th anniversary of his birth was coming up in less than a fortnight, and to his wife's displeasure he wasn't going to be home for the celebration yet again - and so he was, of course, not _worried_. Or even _upset_. But there was no denying the fact that he was concerned, which for a man of his age and position came close to an unseemly slip in discipline.

Allowing himself a small sigh, Sorvik folded his hands on the desk in front of him. The screen on his right showed a Starfleet report, written and sent to Starfleet Headquarters ten weeks ago, in which Captain Jonathan Archer officially declared two of his officers missing in action. The padd in front of him showed the personal files of said officers, and judging from the pictures, there was no doubt that the two malnourished, exhausted humans down in sickbay were Lieutenant Malcolm Reed and Commander Charles Tucker, Archer's missing crewmen.

The reason for Sorvik's concern, however, was not the prospect of having to contact Starfleet Headquarters, nor was it the fact that they were going to have to postpone their current mission in order to rendezvous with the Starfleet ship. Sorvik did not exactly look forward to this meeting - he wasn't very experienced in dealing with humans and for some reason always had the impression that they felt rather intimidated by his presence. The reason for this was a mystery to him, as were humans in general, but that was another matter. It was his duty as an ally and fellow captain to bring the two human officers back to their ship, even if it meant a delay in schedule. He would have expected no less from the human captain if he had rescued two of Sorvik's crewpeople.

No, the reason for Sorvik's disquiet were the things the fair-haired human - Commander Charles Tucker - had told him before Healer T'Vai had asked the Captain to leave sickbay so she could take care of her patients. For some reason the other human, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, wasn't able to talk, but he had listened to the Commander and from time to time nodded his head in the human gesture of confirmation.

Wearily and using many confusing human idioms, the Commander had related their experiences of the last three months, a tale of abduction, slavery, abuse and violence which left both the Captain and the Healer struggling to keep their controlled countenances. Sorvik had never before heard of the species which the human called "the Sar'veen", and being told that among dozens of other alien species there were also many Vulcans enslaved on their planet was a definite reason for concern. The High Command was going to have to be informed, but that would have to wait until Commander Tucker was able to provide him with more details. For now, contacting Starfleet Command was his first priority.

Sorvik looked back down at the padd showing the human officers' personal files, and raised an eyebrow when he saw how young they still were. At that age, Vulcan officers would only just begin their military careers, assuming that they had finished their training yet. For a moment his eyes rested on the pictures of the two men. Yes, very young indeed, and self-confident, eager to prove themselves on Earth's very first exploration vessel. In a way, the difference between those pictures and the two humans down in sickbay was disturbing. If anything, these men looked haunted.

Sorvik raised a mental eyebrow at his illogical musings, then switched off the padd and stored it away in his desk. Later, when both humans had rested, there would be time for details.

The doorsignal chimed, and Sorvik deactivated the screen. After all, only captains and higher-ranking officers were granted access to Starfleet reports.

"Come," he called. As he had expected, Healer T'Vai entered the room, bowing her head as a way of greeting before she came to stand in front of his desk.

"Take a seat," Sorvik said. T'Vai complied, sitting down on the only other chair in the sparsely furnished office. She was a tall, slender woman who, unlike most Vulcans serving in the military, wore her gray hair long and in complicated braids which were held together at the back of her head. Instead of the usual gray uniform she wore the traditional healer robe, the symbol on her left shoulder indicating that she had learned her profession at the Medical Academy of Shanai Kahr.

"How are your patients?"

T'Vai folded her hands in her lap. "Lieutenant Reed is sleeping; his condition seems to be stable. I administered a light sedative to help him relax and applied an intravenous drip. Both he and the Commander expressed the wish to take a shower before they rest, but the Lieutenant's body was in immediate need of fluid replenishment and the treatment could not be delayed. I had Sevim show the Commander to the guest quarters."

She did not smile - of course not - but her dry tone betrayed a hint of amusement. When the humans had first climbed out of their shuttle, the smell had been all but nauseating to the Vulcans gathered in the hangar bay. Of course, Vulcan politeness would not allow this fact to be mentioned to the guests, but it seemed like the humans knew without being told that their body odor was less than pleasant. Sorvik did not blame them. He had seen that the stolen vessel did not have any toilet or bathroom facilities, and had administered a stern rebuke to one of the younger officers whom he had caught holding his nose when the humans passed by. He was not going to tolerate his crew treating the guests with anything less than perfect Vulcan hospitality.

"That is good to hear. What did your examinations show?"

Any amusement that might have crossed T'Vai's features vanished.

"My scans confirmed what Commander Tucker already told us. Lieutenant Reed seems to have been submitted to a series of scientific procedures which caused the loss of his eyesight. I also found traces of toxins in his blood; presumably he has been injected with these substances to test their effect on a humanoid metabolism. I am not certain why he has lost his speech, but I will conduct further examinations to find out more details."

"Will you be able to restore his eyesight?"

"I believe the damage is not necessarily permanent, but I was not able to perform a more thorough examination yet."

Sorvik raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

T'Vai hesitated. "The Lieutenant did not seem to feel comfortable with the examination, and I decided it would be best for him to rest before I continue my tests."

Sorvik acknowledged this without comment. T'Vai had spent a year on Earth in the course of an Interplanetary Exchange Program, and understood humans better than he ever would. If she said the Lieutenant had been feeling uncomfortable for any reason whatsoever, then Sorvik was going to be last one to question her judgement.

"What about Commander Tucker?" he asked.

"He also seemed somewhat reluctant to allow an examination, insisting that he was only tired. I could however convince him to let me examine the wounds on his back, some of which have not fully healed yet."

"Wounds on his back?" Sorvik repeated. The Commander had not mentioned anything in his brief account of their experiences which could have led to these injuries.

"Whip wounds," T'Vai said quietly. "They seem to be about three weeks old, and have apparently been treated at some point. I asked the Commander about it, and he confirmed that he was whipped as a form of punishment. He would not say why."

Sorvik found himself sympathizing with the human's reluctance to talk about an experience which must have been both shameful and humiliating. This was not something to talk to strangers about.

T'Vai continued. "I have also removed the subdermal translating devices he told us about," she said. "Sevim took them to the laboratory for further examination."

"Good." Sorvik rose from his chair. "Let me know when the Commander is able to give a more detailed report. I need further information before I notify the High Command."

"I will." T'Vai got up as well. "But I want the Commander to rest before he answers any more questions. He is still not well."

Sorvik knew that there was no use and therefore no logic in arguing with the Healer. He bowed his head in acknowledgement, watching as she left. Then, sitting down again, he reactivated the screen and entered the code to contact Starfleet Headquarters.

XXX

He was never going to leave this shower again.

Trip felt the water - cool, _clean_ water - run down his face and body, washing away all the dirt and sweat and grime of the last days, and for a moment he thought that he had never felt anything that wonderful before. The herbal soap he had found in the soap dispenser gave off a spicy, unfamiliar smell, but Trip still used it until most of it had washed down the drain, shampooing his hair and thinking that he was going to smell like a goddamn bowl of plomeek broth. He didn't mind; at least he was going to be a _clean_ bowl of plomeek broth. No more people holding their noses when he walked by.

The time since they had first set foot on the Vulcan's hangar deck had been like a dream. A happy dream, for a change, but still something that was too good to be real. Part of Trip was still afraid he might open his eyes any moment and find himself in a Sar'veen cargo hold, about to be shipped back to K'tera. His mind still had trouble adjusting to the idea that they were safe, that he could finally let go. Of the anxiety, the tension, all those emotions which had kept him going for so long. It did seem like a dream to him.

Finally, when he noticed his fingers beginning to wrinkle and was sure that there was no part of his body which hadn't been thoroughly soaped down and scrubbed, Trip reached out to turn off the water. The shower stall was filled with steam, and he left wet footprints on the bathroom floor as he padded around the room hunting for a towel. He found several of them stacked neatly in the wall cupboard, and next to them a vacuum-packed toothbrush and a small jar which contained the Vulcan version of toothpaste, as well as a tube of depilatory cream.

Trip took it all out, and while rubbing the depilatory on his stubbly chin, he found that he was feeling better than he had in days. Months, perhaps. It wasn't only about being safe; it was about knowing that they had made it, that they had done so themselves. He was proud, yes, but what was a lot more prominent was a deep, all-embracing sense of relief. It was that moment after a car crash when the first numbing shock wore off and you realized that no one had been hurt. It was sitting in the doctor's office and being told that the results had shown there was nothing wrong, after all.

The analogy made him smile, if only a little. He thought of the Vulcan doctor - no, Healer - examining Malcolm, and hoped with all his heart that the results were going to be good news indeed. That Malcolm was going to get his sight back, and that he was going to speak again. This was a happy dream, after all, so why shouldn't he? Maybe it was going to take only two or three injections, and everything would be alright.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Trip rinsed the toothbrush and carefully put it back where it had been. He knew he didn't have to, that the Vulcans would provide him with a new toothbrush every day, if he asked for it, but an irrational part of his mind still insisted that a toothbrush was a thing of value and had to be treated accordingly. On their first day at Orven's place, the Sar'veen had given them a toothbrush each, saying that these had to last them for the next six months and that they would have to use his old toothbrushes if they lost them. Both Malcolm and Trip become quite paranoid about their toothbrushes at the time, washing them carefully and using them only once a day so they wouldn't wear out. Being a little slack about dental hygiene was better than having to use the cast-off toothbrushes of a fifty-year-old man with an alcohol addiction and a tendency to bad breath.

Trip left the bathroom, one of the towels wrapped around his waist, and felt the old cuts on his bare back starting to itch. T'Vai had treated them with some sort of dermal-restoring device, saying that he was going to need laser treatment to remove the scars once and for all. Trip had only nodded at the time, glad when she allowed him to put his shirt back on and hide his scarred back from sight. The look of carefully concealed pity on her face made him feel uncomfortable.

He picked up his old shirt and trousers, then saw that someone had left a stack of fresh clothes on a corner of the bed. Trip hesitated, but only for a short moment. After all, his own clothes were rather dirty and smelled of dried sweat; well, to be honest, they _reeked_ of it. No need to torture his Vulcan hosts any more than he had to.

To his surprise, the Vulcan civilian robes fit quite well, and while unfamiliar, they were more comfortable than he had expected. When he had finished dressing, he stood there for a moment, unsure what to do next. T'Vai had advised him to rest, and while he did feel rather exhausted, he felt strangely reluctant to lie down. Part of his mind still expected to wake up in a dark, stinking place every time he opened his eyes, and this was a memory he did not want to be reminded of right now. Right now he wanted to be awake, sit right here in these wonderfully clean and neat quarters and allow himself to become aware of the fact that this was not a dream. This was real.

There was a chair in one corner of the room, looking like a mixture between a floor cushion and the old rocking chair they'd had at home. Trip sat down in it and carefully leaned back, a thing which had become natural to him during the last three weeks. Leaning too hard against anything still made his back feel like fire ants crawling all over it.

Now what next?

He hadn't yet allowed himself to think about that question too much, still getting used to the feeling of finally _being safe_. Now, however, when the implications of being safe began to sink in, it came back to his mind and Trip smiled. They would be going back to Enterprise. Back to being Lieutenant Malcolm Reed and Commander Charles Tucker. Just like before. And why shouldn't they? Maybe this was a dream, after all, and in dreams, these things happened. Happened all the time.

Trip sat there for quite a while, holding on to that thought, and when he finally did fall asleep, after all, he slept peacefully and without nightmares for once.

XXX

Three hours later, the door signal chimed, startling him out of his slumber. For one moment, Trip had no idea where he was and he tensed involuntarily, ready to jump up and run. Then, however, the signal chimed again, a soft, melodic sound, and it came back to him. He was on the Vulcan ship, in his guest quarters, and there was no reason to run.

Trip waited until the sudden rush of adrenaline had worn off again, then got up.

"Come," he called. The door opened, and Healer T'Vai came in, followed by Malcolm who was holding on to her upper arm. The Lieutenant was wearing robes similar to the ones Trip had been given, and had apparently showered and shaved as well, smelling faintly of the herbal soap Trip had found in his shower stall. What caught Trip's attention, however, was the eye bandage Malcolm was wearing, a white piece of gauze wrapped around his head.

T'Vai had followed his eyes. "I will explain later," she said. "Have you rested well?"

Trip nodded. "Yeah. Thanks for the clothes."

He expected her to say "No thanks are necessary" - the Vulcan captain had used these words when Trip had thanked him for the rescue - but T'Vai only bowed her head in silent acknowledgement.

"You okay, Mal?" Trip asked, deliberately turning his head as he spoke. Malcolm nodded, then gestured at Trip and tilted his head to indicate that he wanted to know the same thing. Trip smiled.

"I'm fine," he said. "Slept like a baby in that cushion thing over there."

T'Vai raised an eyebrow at him. "Interesting. I was under the impression that humans also used beds for sleeping."

Trip stared at her, then realized that she was actually joking, in a dry, Vulcan way, of course. She had done that before back in sickbay, and he found it both confusing and pleasant to meet a Vulcan who had a distinct sense of humor.

"Well, sometimes we do," he said. "But usually we just curl up in our basket when we're tired."

Her eyebrow climbed higher, and he saw the corner of Malcolm's mouth twitch slightly.

"It does seem like you have regained your spirits, Commander," T'Vai said, resolutely not smiling. "I am accompanying Lieutenant Reed to the messhall, and I assume you are hungry as well. Captain Sorvik has agreed to postpone the briefing until you have eaten."

"Briefing?" Trip asked as he followed her into the corridor. The temperature and lighting in his quarters had been adjusted to human standards, and it was noticeably warmer out here, the ceiling lamps giving off a soft, orange glow.

"Captain Sorvik and First Officer T'Lin need to know in more detail about your experiences on the Sar'veen homeworld," T'Vai said, turning her head so she was talking in Malcolm's direction as well. "The High Command must be informed as soon as possible."

"What about Starfleet Command?" Trip asked. "Is he gonna talk to them as well?"

"He already has. Admiral Forrest expressed his gratification at hearing that you are still alive, and assured Captain Sorvik that he will try and contact your ship as soon as possible. And your families, of course."

T'Vai's words startled him for some reason. Of course, when someone was reported missing and very likely dead, Jon had to call the person's parents, inform them of what had happened to their son or daughter and express his condolences at their loss. Somehow, however, he had never realized that this time it had been his own parents receiving the bad news.

Glancing at Malcolm, he saw his own emotions mirrored on the Lieutenant's face. The thought of rising from the dead had a slightly unsettling touch to it. Trip kept silent as they entered the turbolift, lost in his own thoughts until they arrived at the messhall.

The room was twice as large as the messhall back on Enterprise, and instead of cupboards there were several replication units integrated into the walls, reminding Trip vaguely of the replicator back at Orven's restaurant. Only a few crewmembers sat scattered at the tables, looking up briefly when the Healer entered with the two humans in tow.

"Is there anything in particular you would like to eat?" T'Vai asked, and for the first time Trip realized that he was actually hungry.

"Well..." He hesitated. "We're not really familiar with Vulcan food. I guess we'll have whatever you have."

Malcolm nodded his assent, and again, T'Vai's eyebrow twitched amusedly.

"Actually, we have several human dishes in our replicator program," she said. "I spent a year on Earth, and I was able to convince the Head of Kitchen Maintenance to add several of your recipes to the usual range of options. Maybe we can find something you will like. I, for one, am particularly fond of the vegetable lasagna."

"Lasagna sounds great," Trip said, surprised at the fact that there would be human food on a Vulcan ship, and even more surprised what a difference it made. Suddenly he was not only hungry; he was ravenous. "Or would ya like somethin' else, Mal?"

The Lieutenant shook his head, and Trip saw a happy smile cross his face.

"Well, lasagna it is, then."

A few minutes later they were sitting at a table near one of the windows, and Trip found that the lasagna tasted even better than he had expected. Malcolm seemed to be enjoying his as well, even though he had some difficulties handling his fork without being able to see what he was doing. Up until now this had never been a problem; back at the camp or in the flitter he had mostly eaten food which he could put directly in his mouth, or had some soup out of a cup. Now, however, he kept missing his mouth and Trip thought ruefully that maybe lasagna hadn't been such a good idea after all. Of course, Malcolm stubbornly refused to accept any offers of help, and after a while seemed to get the hang of it, eating very slowly and moving carefully so as not to knock down his dishes.

"I have already talked to Lieutenant Reed about this," T'Vai said, closing her hands around her cup of tea. "There is a chance of about 80 percent that I will be able to restore his sight."

She stated it in a very matter-of-fact way, but Trip still felt his breath catch in his throat. "Eighty percent?" he repeated, and saw Malcolm smile and nod. Under his bandage the Lieutenant was almost beaming, and suddenly Trip saw a glimpse of the fear Malcolm had been holding inside, the fear that he might stay blind for the rest of his life._ Too good to be true, indeed._

"My scans showed that the substance they used caused a temporary paralysis of the Lieutenant's optic nerves. A rather painful procedure, but not an irreversible one. There is a Vulcan medication which should take care of the dysfunction, assuming that Lieutenant Reed's human metabolism does not reject it. But as I said, the odds are high that it will work on a human just as well as on a Vulcan."

"How... how long is it gonna take?" Trip asked, his lasagna forgotten.

"If he receives daily injections, the Lieutenant should be able to see again in approximately two of your weeks."

"Two weeks?"

Trip felt the urge to jump up and either kiss T'Vai or pull Malcolm into a bone-crushing hug. Knowing that neither action would be appreciated, he only smiled happily and saw her eyebrow twitch in response, as if she had read his thoughts and was daring him to act on them, after all.

"About two weeks, yes. I have already administered the first injection two hours ago. For the duration of the treatment the Lieutenant's eyes are going to be rather sensitive to light, which is why he needs to wear this bandage."

"Does it hurt?" Trip threw Malcolm a concerned glance. "The injections, I mean?"

Malcolm shook his head, and T'Vai confirmed, "The procedure is painless, unless the bandage is taken off. And while you'll find your sight gradually returning, Lieutenant, I must strongly advise you not to expose your eyes to bright light before the two weeks are up. As I said, such an action would only result in unnecessary discomfort."

Malcolm nodded, but Trip suspected that even the prospect of "unnecessary discomfort" wouldn't keep the Lieutenant from secretly checking once in a while if his sight had already improved since the last injection.

"I'm sure Malcolm isn't going to do any such thing," he said, mentally adding: _And if he does, he'll be in trouble._

Malcolm seemed to have heard the unspoken warning in his tone, and pressed his lips together. But he wasn't really angry, Trip could see it in the way a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, that's great news, right, Mal?"

Malcolm nodded, carefully spearing another piece of lasagna and transferring it into his mouth. Trip watched his friend, eating, smiling, euphoric at the prospect of getting his sight back, and suddenly became almost painfully aware of how lucky they were. It could have been different; very different indeed. If Malcolm hadn't survived, Trip knew he wouldn't have found the courage to steal the flitter. And if Malcolm hadn't listened at Orven's kitchen door that one night...

"I have also talked to the Lieutenant about his aphasia," T'Vai said, and Trip gratefully returned his thoughts to the present.

"Can you do somethin' about that as well?"

T'Vai hesitated. "It is not going to be that simple," she said. "I-"

She was interrupted by a soft beep from the intercom on the wall. T'Vai got up and pressed a panel next to the speaker.

"T'Vai."

"Healer." Trip recognized Captain Sorvik's voice. "If the Commander and the Lieutenant are ready, then we would like to begin the briefing."

He did not say anything else, but like Trip's Vulcan biology teacher in tenth grade, he didn't need to. If Sorvik said he would like to start the briefing, then you'd better get your ass moving. Trip nodded at T'Vai, and the Healer turned back to the intercom.

"We are on our way, Captain. T'Vai out."

On their way to the turbolift, Trip noticed a distinct bounce in the Lieutenant's step, and he smiled. Yeah, damn lucky indeed.

XXX

Several dozen light years away, Jonathan Archer opened a drawer to get out a bag of dog food for Porthos' dinner. The beagle, who loved the sound of that drawer opening more than anything else in his small world, barked excitedly and sniffed the air next to his bowl.

Jon smiled a little. "Just a moment, boy," he said, getting out the scissors to open the bag. "Only half a bag, remember. Doc says you're getting too fat, anyway."

Porthos clearly wasn't interested in the medical profession's opinion, barking again, his tail wagging back and forth when a wonderful smell escaped from the opened bag.

"Alright, alright, here you-"

"Sato to Captain Archer."

Jon sighed, and to Porthos' utter dismay he turned away without emptying any of the kibble into the bowl. "What is it, Hoshi?"

"There is a recorded message from Admiral Forrest for you, sir. Audio only. The interferences..."

"Of course. Put it through."

The communication's officer complied, and a moment later the Admiral's voice filled the room. Jon listened. And froze. The bag of dog food dropped from his hand to the floor, its contents spilling all over the deck. Jon didn't notice. He sat down hard on his bed, listening to the Admiral talk about Vulcan ships and rendezvous and a person called Sorvik. When the voice stopped talking, he still sat and stared. And then, while Porthos happily and regardless of Doctor Phlox' warnings ate a whole bag of kibble that was scattered on the floor, Jon buried his face in his hands and began to cry.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Reedie (-stares back with big blue eyes- okay, okay... a happy ending ;-) ), Gabi (ohhh Mann, ist das kalt draußen! Und mit dem Posten bin ich auch spät dran...), Luna (thank you, especially for your comments on the Vulcans. As I said, I -love-Vulcans ;-) ), Tata (you can stop counting ... here's the new chapter!), stage manager (thank you! it means a lot to hear that, but I know I'm still making mistakes), Rinne (yes, a Vulcan with a sense of humor... but then, I think even T'Pol has a (very subtle) sense of humor), highonscifi (I'm glad to hear the emotions in the last chapter worked so well), The Flaming Dragonfly (well, as I said, I really like the Vulcans, so maybe that made it easier for me to write about them), Ocean (I know you're all waiting for the reunion, but let's stay with the Vulcans just for one more chapter, okay ;-)?) , RoaringMice (yeah, deep down Jon is just one big mushball ;-) ), lieutenants-lady (okay, okay, I'm updating ;-)!!!), KaliedescopeCat (thank you! I felt the same way when I wrote chapter 16; after so much angst it was good to give the boys (and myself) a break), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain for chapters 2, 4 and 16 (sorry about the thing with the italics, I've been having some trouble with the preview feature. Oh, and please don't strangle me ;-)... I'm glad you like the story so much, and I promise that I'm going to finish it), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (this chapter will be dealing mainly with Malcolm's aphasia, so maybe some of your questions are going to be answered ;-) ), Cougar Bait (wow, thank you! it's this kind of comments that a writer lives for -g- ), LoveChilde (I hope you are! I want -everybody- to like the Vulcans... IMO, they're the most interesting alien race Star Trek ever invented), Exploded Pen (thanks ;-)! A depilatory cream is a substance you rub on your skin to remove the hair. The TOS people always use depilatory cream instead of razors, and since the Vulcans are more advanced than the humans I thought they might be using it as well) and KorieHonshu ( as I said, I am certainly going to finish it ;-)!) for reviewing!

What a long AN... on with Chapter 17! Read and review!

Chapter 17

"My mind..."

A desert. Warm sand under his feet, red dunes stretching in all directions. A gentle wind ruffled his hair, and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the warmth.

"...to your mind..."

Yes, he had been afraid. Afraid of hands touching his face, of someone intruding into his thoughts. But here, in this quiet desert, there was nothing to be afraid of. The warmth closed around him, and he felt safe, at ease.

"...my thoughts..."

The sand tickled the soles of his feet and he bent down, scooping up a handful of the red grains and feeling them between his fingers. They smelled of dryness and heat. He sat down and buried his naked toes in the sand, remembering how he had done the same thing as a child when his family had gone to the beach.

"...to your thoughts..."

He raised his head. The sky was aflame, clouds drifting across it like white flakes of burnt wood.

"...our minds..."

A peaceful place. The wind left strange, wavy patterns in the sand, and he smoothed them away, only to watch them reappear a second later.

"...are merging..."

He was no longer alone in the desert. Far away, on one of the dunes he could see a figure, a dark silhouette against the red of the sand. She raised her hand, and he knew she was greeting him. Asking for his permission to come closer. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to share the calm and peace with someone else. Then he raised a hand in response.

"...our minds..."

She moved without haste, weaving her way between the dunes, and he realized she wasn't here to disturb the peace. The slight apprehension he had felt vanished. She had passed the last dune and came to stand in front of him. Her face softened as she lifted a hand, fingers parted in a V.

"...are one."

Malcolm.

She had not spoken, but he could still hear her. He replied, finding that he could actually do it. He could talk, although his lips didn't move, and a twinge of excitement broke through his calm.

This isn't so bad, is it?

The corner of her mouth twitched. No, it isn't.

She sat down in the sand next to him, and for a while neither of them spoke, watching the wind draw patterns on the sand.

You can hear me, he said finally. My thoughts, I mean.

Yes.

So... He hesitated. It's my head that's screwed up, isn't it? I can talk, but only in my mind.

Their minds were one, and so she had no trouble understanding the human colloquialism.

Your head is not 'screwed up', Malcolm. Look around. What do you see?

A desert. He hesitated. This is not real, is it? I wouldn't be able to see it if it were real.

It is real, she said. In your mind. We... created this place. Together. A Healer can never come here without the patient's consent and participation. You found it in yourself to call this place into being.

He considered this, his finger drawing a line in the sand next to him. But then why can't I talk? I tried again and again, but it just doesn't work. I don't understand it.

They both felt the frustration underlying his words.

You were hurt, she said simply. You were hurt, and your mind had to find a way of dealing with it. And because you are strong, Malcolm, your mind found a way of doing so. It did not give up. You did not lose your sanity.

He flinched, but she continued, knowing that he needed to hear this. You lost your speech because of the substances they gave you. It was only a temporary loss, but your mind held on to it, using it to create a distance between itself and the outer world. You needed that distance.

But I don't need it anymore! He sounded almost angry. I don't want it! I want to be able to see, and to talk to people. I want to be able to do my job, and I don't want to be a burden. I...

She held up a hand. Don't, Malcolm. You must not become angry with yourself. Your anger is justified, but do not direct it towards yourself. None of this is your fault.

Now his fingers gripped the sand, digging into it until only the back of his hand was still visible. I was weak. I let it happen. I should have fought them...

No. Gently, she brushed the sand away, laying her hand on his. No. You had no way of doing so. And you are strong. You did not give up. You survived.

I'm glad they are dead.

She felt an unfamiliar rush of emotions accompanying these words, guilt and hate and anger, but did not pull back her hand.

Yes, she said. Yes, you are.

Silence followed, and they watched the wind smooth the sand around their touching hands. Gradually, he calmed down again, the warmth and quiet of her presence helping him relax.

What can I do? he asked finally. There must be something I can do.

Yes. She got up, holding out her hand. Come with me.

He hesitated. To go where?

It doesn't matter. You'll know when you are there. The important thing is whether you are ready for the journey. Do not rush things. You must agree only when you are ready.

He nodded. I am ready.

Good. She helped him to his feet. I will accompany you for a while, until you are ready to go on on your own. But for today, this will suffice.

Can't I...

No. A faint smile crossed her face. You are a stubborn man, Malcolm Reed. I believe you have been told so before.

He answered her smile. I guess I have. Will we come back here tomorrow?

If you wish to do so.

Yes.

"Yes, I do."

Their minds parted, and Malcolm slept.

XXX

Trip watched T'Vai emerge from behind the curtain, her face calm and betraying no emotions.

"He is sleeping," she said. "Melds are very exhausting for the patients."

He nodded, almost afraid to ask, fearing that he might have been mistaken. "He said somethin', right? He said 'Yes, I do.'"

"He did." Her face did not change, but Trip could see that she was pleased. "I did not expect him to speak at this early stage of the treatment. It is... gratifying."

"So..." Trip cast a look at the closed curtain. "Does... does this mean he'll be okay?"

T'Vai took a seat in one of the cushioned chairs, gesturing for him to sit down as well. Trip complied, but he found it difficult to relax. He wasn't entirely comfortable with this place. The room was lit only by candles, the walls decorated with ceremonial objects, and despite the fact they were on a starship, the place reminded Trip more of a Vulcan monastery than anything else. Spooky, in a way. Even more so given its purpose; T'Vai had told him that this part of sickbay was used exclusively for melding.

"Melding for medical purposes, of course," she had added. "All other forms of melding are still frowned upon by most Vulcans."

When T'Vai had guided Malcolm to the soft reclining chair, Trip had seen the fear on his friend's face. Malcolm had striven not to let it show, but Trip had noticed the way his hands clenched the armrests of the chair before T'Vai closed the curtain. The Lieutenant had been scared shitless. Understandably so; Trip wasn't sure he himself would have allowed the procedure in Malcolm's place.

"He still has a long way to go," T'Vai said. "His speech will return, yes, but there is no way of telling how long it will take. The Lieutenant must find his own way; I can only guide him into the right direction."

"So you're gonna have to meld with him again?" Trip frowned at the idea.

"I will meld with him as often as it takes, Commander. I cannot rush him, and neither do I have any influence on how long the recovery process will take."

Trip nodded, then, suddenly, a smile tugged at his lips. "You know, it's good to hear that he's still in there somewhere."

T'Vai's left eyebrow climbed higher. "I assure you he is, Commander. And he is frustrated, as you may well imagine. Desperate to get his speech back."

Trip wasn't surprised. Malcolm had never been the patient type, and Trip suspected that he was blaming himself, mentally beating himself up for not being able to talk. The Lieutenant tended to take it out on himself when something did not work out the way he wanted.

"What I don't understand is... when the effect of the drug was only temporary, then why didn't his speech return after a while?" Trip remembered how hard Malcolm had tried to talk, sometimes all but crying with frustration when his lips refused to form the words he wanted to say.

"The Lieutenant asked me the same thing," T'Vai said.

"He _asked_ you?" Trip repeated, now utterly confused. "But..."

"In a mind meld, the Healer and the patient do not only feel each other's presence," T'Vai explained. "They communicate; talk to each other, if you want to put it that way. I did not meld with the Lieutenant to... forcibly alter his mind in any way, Commander. He gave his consent to everything I did, and most of what we achieved today was his doing. All I did was show him the way."

Trip lowered his eyes, suddenly embarrassed. "I didn't mean to say you were hurtin' him."

"I know," she said gently. "You are concerned about your friend. To answer your question, it is true that strictly chemically speaking, the loss of speech was caused by an imbalance in the Lieutenant's neurotransmitters. However, after the drug had worn off, the Lieutenant's psyche was still not ready to deal with his experiences at the test laboratory. His mind sought a way to cut itself off from the outer world, to protect itself, and one way of doing so was to hold on to the aphasia. The Lieutenant had no influence on this happening, even though he would not believe this at first."

"He wouldn't." Trip sighed. "He's always blamin' himself, tryin' to find out what he did wrong."

T'Vai raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. But he is also very strong-minded. In a way, his human emotions will help speed up the recovery process."

Now it was his turn to raise his eyebrows. "What d'you mean?"

T'Vai's eyes smiled, though her face never changed. "He's too stubborn to give up."

XXX

Malcolm chewed on his lower lip, his eyebrows drawn together in intent concentration. Trip waited patiently, knowing better than to guess what the Lieutenant wanted to say and thus spare him the trouble of answering.

"Yes---please," Malcolm managed finally, and Trip noted with satisfaction that this time, it had taken the Lieutenant only thirty seconds to answer his question. Four days ago, his reaction time had still been up to two or three minutes.

"Here you go," he said, picking up the jug and pouring Malcolm a glass of water. Then he waited.

"Thanks," Malcolm said, and Trip smiled. Ten seconds at the most.

It was an exhausting way of having a conversation, and more than once, Malcolm had resorted to writing on a padd when the words just wouldn't come out. Still, they kept at it, and T'Vai was amazed - in a non-emotional, Vulcan way of course - at the progress the Lieutenant was making. She had been right; Malcolm was indeed desperate to get his speech back. After the second melding session, he had started to speak on a more regular basis, and now, after the third meld, he was beginning to form sentences instead of using only single words. One of the first things he had wanted to know was if Trip was alright.

Trip still wasn't really sure how to answer this question. Of course he was alright; he was getting enough to eat, could sleep in an actual bed, no one ordered him about or hit him, and thanks to T'Vai's antibiotic ointments his back was finally healing. Yes, in a strictly physical sense, he was perfectly fine. And still, he found himself lying awake at night, his mind returning to things he was trying to forget during the daytime. When he finally slept, the nightmares returned; over and over again, Trip watched the Sar'veen woman die, saw himself and Malcolm sold at the auction or was back on his knees, the crowd behind him laughing and jeering at his pain. Usually when he woke up, he found himself unable to go back to sleep, and for lack of alternatives had started reading the few English translations of Vulcan books he had found in the ship's library computer. By now, he was already half-way through T'Sel's "_Paradigms of Logic_". Not that Vulcan philosophy was all that exciting, but at least it was complicated enough to keep his mind off other things. And late at night, when he woke up from another nightmare, keeping his mind off other things had become his main priority.

Once or twice, when even T'Sel's dry prose hadn't been able to chase away the dream, Trip had considered talking to Malcolm, knowing the Lieutenant would understand. Still, for some reason he couldn't bring himself to do so. Malcolm did not know about the Sar'veen woman; in fact, no one knew. The Sar'veen at the testing facility had been killed; no need to mention how. Or by whom. Trip wasn't sure if he was ever going to tell anyone about it.

"Trip?"

He looked up at Malcolm's questioning tone.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "I was kinda woolgatherin' there for a minute."

The Lieutenant looked like he wanted to say something else, but for once, Trip didn't wait for him to find the words. Gathering up their dinner plates, he stood up.

"How 'bout some dessert?"

Malcolm shook his head. "No---thank you."

The intercom chimed, and a voice came from the speaker on the wall. "Sorvik to Commander Tucker."

Abandoning their dishes, Trip went over to the com panel.

"Tucker here."

"If it is convenient to you, I would like you to come to my office, Commander. And bring Lieutenant Reed as well."

"On my way, sir. Tucker out."

When he returned to the table, he saw that Malcolm was covering his mouth to hide a grin.

"What's so funny?"

This time, Malcolm answered almost immediately. "'Sir'?"

Trip frowned, then he realized what Malcolm was referring to. "Well," he said, a reluctant grin tugging at his lips, "he does sound a little like that Biology teacher of mine. An' believe me, even our principal was scared ta death of that guy."

Malcolm chuckled, and got up as well. In a gesture that had become natural to both of them, Trip took Malcolm's hand and helped him take hold of his upper arm. The Lieutenant had come a long way since his first, unsteady steps back in the fugitive camp, but he still needed someone to guide him when he took a walk in the ship's corridors. And since Malcolm would regain his sight more sooner than later, it wasn't really worth the effort for him to learn how to walk with a white stick.

On their way to the turbolift, Trip wondered briefly if Sorvik had summoned them because he had received a call from Enterprise. His pulse quickened at the thought, but then he remembered what Forrest had told him. Enterprise was currently crossing a large nebula, and there would be no way to establish communication until her rendezvous with the Vulcan ship. Only two more days. Forty-eight hours. Trip smiled at the thought.

As he and Malcolm entered Sorvik's office, they found Sorvik, First Officer T'Lin and Healer T'Vai waiting for them, all three of the Vulcans gathered around the view screen.

"Commander." Sorvik bowed his head. "Lieutenant. I am glad you could join us. _T'Kahr_ Selin of the Vulcan High Council wishes to ask you a few question."

Trip stopped in his tracks, feeling Malcolm's fingers tighten on his arm. Selin. Of course he had heard the name before; Selin was the spokesman of the Vulcan High Council, that mysterious institution which wielded even more power than the High Command, but hardly ever interfered in interplanetary politics itself. Still, Selin was a well-known name on Earth, and Trip could not for the life of him imagine why this man would want to talk to two lowly human Starfleet officers.

Sorvik stepped back, making room for them. Trip hesitated, then, followed by Malcolm, he stepped in front of the view screen.

The monitor showed a very old Vulcan, a small withered man whose dark brown skin was furrowed with countless wrinkles. Selin's robes lacked any clan symbols or ornaments, and he was seated in a private living area instead of a conference room; in the background Trip could see a window looking out on the desert.

Before he could say something, the old Vulcan raised a hand in the traditional greeting.

"I thank you for taking the time to talk to me," he said, stunning Trip into silence. Selin didn't seem to have noticed, his eyes coming to rest on Malcolm. "I am glad to hear you will regain your sight, Lieutenant."

"Thank you---sir."

The Vulcan folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "As you surely can imagine, your report to the High Command has raised a certain amount of... concern. A few members of the Command Staff are inclined not to pay attention to the evidence you have given, saying that the information is insufficient and unreliable."

He held up a hand when Trip opened his mouth. "However, the majority of both the High Council and the High Command agreed that we cannot simply ignore the fact that Vulcans and species allied with our people are being abducted and sold into slavery. Before we take further action, however, I must ask you to testify directly before the High Council."

Trip's heart sank at these words. "Does that mean we have to come to Vulcan?"

To his utter astonishment, the ancient Vulcan smiled. "It would be the traditional procedure, yes, but given the circumstances, a recorded testimony will suffice. I am sure you are eager to return to your ship as soon as possible."

Trip smiled, and heard Malcolm breathe a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."

Selin bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I will now ask you several questions, and I need you to answer them to the best of your knowledge."

Trip nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Is it true that the species who call themselves "Sar'veen" have abducted Vulcan citizens and enslaved them on their homeplanet?"

"Yes."

"Have you met any of those Vulcans yourselves?"

"Yes. An old lady called T'Min and a young man, Sepek." Trip hesitated, then he added, "Sepek is only half Vulcan, though. His father was Sar'veen."

The lines around Selin's mouth hardened at that, but he continued calmly. "What other species have you encountered on the Sar'veen homeplanet?"

Trip considered. "Andorians, Tellarites, Xyrillians, Denobulans, Orions... and Klingons. These are all I can remember, but there were also quite a lot of species I didn't recognize."

"And is it true that you, Lieutenant Reed, have sustained severe physical damage in the course of a series of laboratory experiments you were submitted to by Sar'veen scientists?"

Malcolm swallowed, and Trip placed a hand on his friend's arm. "Yes," Malcolm said finally. "That---is true."

"How do the Sar'veen in general treat their slaves?"

Trip hesitated briefly; Selin's questions stirred memories and emotions he would rather have forgotten altogether. "To the Sar'veen, a slave is not a person," he said then, quietly. "Only a thing to be used and abused as they see fit. Slaves don't have any rights on K'tera, and every Sar'veen can torture or even kill their slaves without facin' any legal consequences."

"Thank you, Commander, Lieutenant." Selin's ancient face betrayed no emotions, but Trip noticed a mixture of anger and sadness in his eyes. "With your permission, your testimony will be presented to the Vulcan High Council. In the meantime, I wish you a safe return to your ship. Live long and prosper. Captain Sorvik..."

Again, he bowed his head, then reached out and cut the connection. Vulcan symbols appeared on the gray screen. Trip stood there for another moment, then he turned to T'Vai who was looking unusually grave.

"Now what are they gonna do?"

"They will discuss the matter," she said quietly. "And when the High Council has reached a decision, then Vulcan may soon be preparing for war."

TBC....

Please let me know what you think!


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to Tata (I know you've been waiting for the reunion... here goes -) ), Eyes on Tactical for chapters 16 and 17 (glad you like T'Vai... and Trip -will- talk to someone, don't worry), Chriss Corkscrew (glad you like it so much!), Rinne (I got the hint -)... here they go), highonscifi (oh yes they are (going to be sorry)), Maraschino (well, as someone said before, thank God for the Vulcans -)), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (thank you, I'm glad the dialogues worked so well), Ocean (I do think that Vulcans are likeable and compassionate - at least in TOS they are), stage manager (yes, I've seen the season 4 episodes... it's true that some of the Vulcans are rather emotional, but I really liked the way they wrote Surak), Gabi (muahahahaha - sorry, aber irgendjemand musste das irre Gelächter abkriegen -). KLAUSUREN SIND VORBEI!), lieutenants-lady (actually, the Vulcans have been at war quite often, even after Surak), KaliedescopeCat (I am, too (cheering for the Vulcans -) ), firechild (thank you -)!), firebirdgirl (thanks for your comments on chapter 15... it's a touchy subject, yes, but I felt it needed to be mentioned even though this is not a slash story), CordeliaBlack (actually, I am wrapping it up -)...), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (well, I hope you won't be disappointed!) and Spike26 (Well, I'd better finish this way too long AN now and get on with the chapter... -) ) for reviewing!

Please read and review!

-

Chapter 18

"All set?"

Malcolm nodded and took hold of Trip's arm. "Let's go."

Trip took one last look around the room, not surprised when he saw that Malcolm had even made his bed. The bed spread was somewhat crumpled in places, but for someone who still couldn't see Malcolm had done an amazingly good job. Even the pajamas the Vulcans had given him lay neatly folded on one corner of the bed.

The Lieutenant tugged at his arm. "Come on, Trip, we'll- be late."

T'Vai's voice came from the doorway. "Do not worry, Lieutenant. You still have almost ten minutes until your vessel is here." She entered the room. "I can, of course, understand that you are eager to get back to your ship."

Inwardly, Trip smiled at her careful Vulcan phrasing. "I guess we are," he said. Eager to get back. Euphoric. Floating on air. In the end, it didn't matter which words you used to describe the happy bubble sitting at the pit of his stomach. It had been sitting there all morning, and if he was being honest, most of the night as well. Yes, he was eager to get back. He could hardly wait.

"It's not that we don't appreciate your hospitality," he added. "You've done so much for us these last ten days; it's just that..."

"There is no need to explain." Her left eyebrow twitched slightly, a sure sign that she was amused, not offended. "Let us go, shall we?"

Trip followed her to the door, Malcolm in tow. Before they left, they had offered to change back into their old clothes (which Ship's Maintenance had returned to their quarters washed, ironed and hardly resembling the sweat-stained rags they had tossed down the laundry chute), but T'Vai would have none of that. It was illogical, she said, to wear old, torn clothing when there was no need to do so, and Trip found he couldn't argue that one. After all, the Vulcan robes _were_ rather comfortable.

"How are your eyes, Lieutenant?" T'Vai asked on the way to the turbolift. Malcolm started somewhat guiltily at that, and Trip bit his lip to stop a chuckle from escaping. This morning when he had come to check on the Lieutenant, he had found Malcolm in the bathroom, carefully pulling the eye bandage back into place and nearly jumping out of his skin when Trip came in. Not in the mood for an argument, Trip had pretended not to have noticed, and Malcolm had pretended not to have noticed that Trip had noticed.

Serves him right, Trip thought when he saw Malcolm's cheeks redden. I bet by now his eyes are giving him hell.

"They're- fine," Malcolm lied. Exchanging a glance with the Healer, Trip could see that T'Vai didn't believe Malcolm any more than he did.

"That is fortunate. Remember, you still have to wear the bandage at least another two or three days. I will send my medical data to your ship's physician so he will be able to complete the treatment."

Malcolm nodded. "T'Vai...," he began.

The Healer turned her head. "Yes?"

"I- want to thank you. For- all that you have done- for me. I-"

The words came haltingly, as always when Malcolm was concentrating too hard on what he wanted to say, and Trip saw him scowl in frustration. He did not give up, though, and T'Vai did not interrupt, waiting until he had finished.

"I- just wanted to say- I appreciate- what you did."

"It is my profession to help sick people, Lieutenant," she said gently. "But I am glad I could be of help."

Malcolm nodded. "More- than that."

They found Captain Sorvik and his first officer waiting at the airlock when they arrived. The Vulcan Captain had donned his dress uniform, a black ceremonial robe, and looked even more intimidating than usual.

"Healer," he said. "Commander, Lieutenant. I have been contacted by your Captain several minutes ago, and he said they will be able to make it "on time"." Sorvik raised an eyebrow. "He seemed somewhat... agitated to me. I hope there have been no problems."

Trip bit back a grin. "I'm sure there haven't, sir."

Sorvik's eyebrow climbed even higher, and T'Vai came to her Captain's aid. "I believe Captain Archer is only looking forward to seeing his officers again, sir."

"Ah." It was obvious that her explanation had not enlightened Sorvik in any way. He was saved from further confusion, however, by the Vulcan guard announcing that the docking procedure was complete.

Sorvik straightened his posture. "Open the lock."

"Yes, sir."

The yellow light next to the door indicated that the sealing mechanism was being deactivated, and Trip felt Malcolm's hand tighten on his arm. A silly grin spread on his face. _Guess we're a little agitated ourselves, Captain._

The bulkhead slid aside, and a moment later Jonathan Archer came walking in - or rather barging through the door with very little of the decorum Enterprise's Captain usually maintained in the presence of alien dignitaries.

"Trip! Malcolm! You two alright?"

Jon seemed to have trouble deciding which one of them to hug first, and solved the problem by pulling them both into a hug at the same time. For once, Malcolm did not shy away from the touch, grinning like a fool as he hugged his Captain for the first and probably only time in his life.

"Never been better." Trip stepped back, and noticed that both of Sorvik's eyebrows had disappeared under his gray bangs. "It's good to see you again, Jon."

"Same- here, Captain."

"What's with your eyes, Malcolm?" The Captain exchanged a worried glance with Trip. "You're not..."

"I'm blind," Malcolm confirmed calmly. "But- my eyes are- going to heal. It's- only a few more days- now."

Jon seemed to have noticed Malcolm's speech problem, but didn't miss a beat. "That's good to hear."

"I have prepared a report for your physician," T'Vai joined in. "With your permission, Captain, I will send it to your ship as soon as I get back to sickbay."

"Of course." Jon turned to Sorvik. "Captain, I guess I owe you an apology. I'm very grateful for your assistance in this, and-"

Sorvik held up a hand. "As I already told your Commander, Captain, no thanks are necessary. And as to your... excitement at seeing your officers, my Healer assured me that this is normal human behavior."

"Indeed it is." Subcommander T'Pol, who had been patiently waiting next to the airlock, stepped forward. "Commander, Lieutenant. It is... agreeable to see you again."

Trip grinned. "Not gonna get rid of me, are ya, T'Pol?"

Her eyes sparkled with secret amusement. "As you are so fond of saying, Commander, I never bothered getting my hopes up."

Malcolm chuckled, and Trip scowled in mock outrage. "Now that's what I call a hearty welcome."

"Time to get back, I think, " Jon interrupted, seeing that his First Officer and Chief Engineer were warming to another one of their famous repartees. "Admiral Forrest is expecting your call, and I believe there are quite a lot of people waiting to say hello as well." He looked at Sorvik. "Captain, Starfleet Command convey their thanks..."

"...which are not necessary," Sorvik finished mildly. "The Vulcan High Command will contact you after your officers' testimony has been presented to the High Council."

Trip was surprised that Jon would know about their conversation with Selin. That's a new one, he thought. Vulcans discussing their plans with Starfleet before a decision has been reached.

Archer, however, didn't seem to find anything unusual about the Vulcan Captain's statement.

"Good." He raised a hand in the Vulcan greeting. "Captain..."

Sorvik mirrored his gesture. "Live long and prosper, Captain Archer. Commander, Lieutenant..."

Trip knew what Sorvik's answer would be if he thanked him, so he tried to spread his fingers in the traditional greeting instead. "Captain Sorvik..."

After the final formalities had been exchanged, the humans left, Malcolm holding on to Trip's arm as they followed Archer through the airlock. A second later, Trip stopped short in his tracks, causing Malcolm to bump into him.

"Trip, what..."

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by the cheers coming from the crowd gathered in front of the airlock. Judging from the racket they were making, it seemed like the whole crew had come to welcome their Chief Engineer and Armory Officer back home.

Seeing their dumbfounded expressions, Archer smiled. "Well, at least I could talk them out of the 'Welcome back' banner."

Hoshi came forward to hug both of them, and only a moment later they were surrounded by a noisy crowd, people clapping their shoulders and telling them over and over again how good it was to have them back. Malcolm seemed a little overwhelmed at first, but he bravely held his ground, smiling and shaking the hands of his Armory staff who knew better than to hug their Chief (Trip's engineering crew, of course, had no such inhibitions).

"Alright!" Archer raised his voice to be heard over the laughing and shouting. "We're all more than happy to have Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed back, but give them some room please. Doctor..."

Phlox had pushed to the front of the crowd, beaming all over his round face. "Commander, Lieutenant, I'm delighted to see you. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me..."

Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor cut him off, still smiling. "Only a brief examination, Lieutenant, to make sure that everything is alright. There'll be no need for you to stay in sickbay."

"Are your eyes going to be alright, sir?" Lieutenant Schwarz wanted to know.

Malcolm nodded. "I'll- be able to take off the bandage- in a few days."

His answer was met with relieved smiles, and none of the crewpeople commented on Malcolm's halting speech, although Trip saw Hoshi exchange a glance with the Captain. Reluctantly, the crowd backed off, and Trip felt Malcolm take hold of his arm again. On their way to sickbay, they kept meeting people who broke into broad grins when they saw them, rushing forward to shake their hands or give them a quick hug. Malcolm was asked again and again about his eyes, and by the time the sickbay doors had closed behind them, the Lieutenant was exhausted enough to allow himself to be guided to a bio bed without so much as a token protest.

Trip sat down on the adjoining bed, and nodded when the doctor cheerfully announced that he was going to be with him in a minute.

"That's okay, doc."

He watched as Phlox began to examine Malcolm, hoping the doctor wasn't going to make him take off his shirt. His back had healed, thanks to T'Vai's ointments, but the scars were still visible, and Trip wasn't in the mood for concerned questions and looks of pity.

He became aware of Jon watching him. "Cap'n?"

"Sorry, Trip." Archer hesitated. "I was just thinking... you look tired."

Trip realized that "you look tired" was only a nice way of saying "you look like shit." He knew he did; despite T'Vai's efforts he was still several pounds too light, and sometimes startled when he saw his own haggard face in the mirror.

He forced a smile. "Guess I've still got a lot of sleep to catch up on."

Jon laid a hand on his arm. "I'm so glad to have you back, Trip." He looked over at Malcolm who was being a model patient for once, allowing Phlox to scan him without a single word of complaint. "Both of you. When we found the empty shuttle pod, we had no idea what had happened. We thought you were dead."

"I know." Trip met his eyes, and this time he didn't have to force his smile. "You have no idea how good it is to be back, Jon."

XXX

Ten hours later, Trip still wasn't able to shake off the feeling that this couldn't actually be real. Eating in messhall, joking with Travis and Hoshi, taking a stroll through Engineering to see for himself how things were going... similarly to his first few days on the Vulcan ship, it seemed like a happy dream to him.

Nothing had changed, and it wasn't hard to pretend that they had never been away, that the last three months had never happened at all. That was, until he entered his quarters and saw the two neatly sealed cardboard boxes standing next to his bed. There was a letter taped to the top of one of the boxes, and Trip knew without looking that it was a note from Jonathan Archer to Mr. and Mrs. Tucker.

Dear Susan and Charles, I have packed Trip's things and added the letters he wanted you to have. It is hard for me to find the right words at a time like this...

Jon had once told Trip that he always felt he had to apologize in those letters, beg the parents' forgiveness because he had not been able to protect their son's or daughter's life like a good captain should. It didn't matter that most people wouldn't blame him, knowing that their children had been fully aware of the risks when signing up for this mission. Jon felt responsible, always, and this time it must have been particularly hard, since he knew Charles and Susan Tucker personally, not just as two names in an electronic file.

Carefully, Trip removed the letter and placed it in a desk drawer. Maybe he was going to give it back to Jon, or open it one day to read what the Captain had written; today, however, he only closed the drawer again, and sat down to begin unpacking the boxes.

He had talked to his parents earlier today, in the Captain's ready room; they had laughed and cried and in the end he had cried as well, the excitement of the day catching up with him. Still, Trip had found himself strangely hesitant to answer their questions. To his parents, who had been away from Earth only once before (a day trip to Lunar station on their thirtieth wedding anniversary), his and Malcolm's story must sound like a wild tale out of a adventure novel, not something that had happened in reality. They would be shocked, horrified, and - worst of all - they would feel sorry for him, but they would not know how it had been. They couldn't. So, for most of the time Trip had let them do the talking, had smiled and nodded when they told him over and over again how happy they were to know that he was alright. And when he closed the channel, he had been surprised how much it meant to hear that.

From the little Malcolm had told him, his own call home had gone surprisingly well, all things considered; his mother and Madeline had cried, and Stuart Reed had expressed his hope that Starfleet was going to take military action "before those bastards abduct any more of your officers." Malcolm said this was his father's way of telling him that he was glad to have him back.

Trip took a picture out of the first box, wiping the glass framing with his sleeve. It was a photo taken at the Academy - his graduation class standing in front of the main building, smiling and holding up their Cadet diplomas. Trip studied it for a while, trying to remember what Cadet Tucker had been planning to do after the photo session. Probably paint the town red together with his fellow graduates, or something similar that involved beer and girls and partying all night.

Trip stood the picture on the shelf next to his bunk, then reached back into the box to get out another bundle of his civilian clothes which Jon had carefully stacked at the bottom. He was on his way over to the cupboard when the door signal sounded.

"Come," he called, not looking to see who had entered. "Sorry for the mess, I'm only just straightenin' up."

"That's okay. After all, I'm the one who messed up your stuff in the first place."

Trip closed the drawer and turned around. "Hey, Cap'n. Thought you were still busy takin' the flitter apart."

Sorvik had agreed to have the Sar'veen flitter taken to Enterprise's shuttle hangar, on the condition that Starfleet allowed the Vulcans access to the data they gathered on Sar'veen technology. To Trip's disappointment, Phlox had strictly forbidden that he come anywhere near the shuttle hangar today, insisting that he still needed several days of rest before he resumed his duties. _Half-time_ duties. The doctor had been quite emphatic on that point.

"I left the job to Travis," Jon said, sitting down on Trip's bunk between a pile of socks and a stack of engineering journals. "He said he's never seen anything like that navigation system before. Practically kicked me out so he and Lieutenant Hess could take a good look at it without me breathing down their necks all the time."

Trip raised his eyebrows. "He said that?"

Jon grinned. "No, he was very polite about it. Said he was going to notify me if they found anything that would be of interest to Starfleet."

Trip smiled, though his heart wasn't in it. He could sympathize with people getting all enthusiastic over a piece of fascinating technology, but it was quite a different story if that technology had originally belonged to the Sar'veen Dominion. If he was being honest, his main motivation to help with the flitter had been to see the damn thing taken apart and scattered all over the shuttle bay floor.

"How's Malcolm doin'?" he asked, picking up another pile of clothes so Jon wouldn't see the expression on his face. "He's gone to bed?"

"Yeah." Jon leaned back, and rested one foot on the edge of the bunk. "I offered to help him unpack his stuff, but he said he was going to be fine. I've no idea how he manages, but..."

"He'll be okay," Trip said quietly. "He's learned to do most things on his own, back in the camp and on the Vulcan ship. Says he doesn't want to be a burden."

Jon sighed. "It's almost as if he were ashamed."

"In a way, I think he is." Trip paused. "He's never talked to me about what they did to him at that lab. He says he doesn't remember, but I think he does. Back on the Vulcan ship, I checked on him one night when he was already asleep, and he was cryin' again, beggin' someone not to hurt his eyes. When I woke him, he said he didn't remember what the nightmare had been about, but I knew that he did. He refused to talk about it, though."

"Give him time, Trip. He's only had a few weeks to deal with it. I'm sure he'll talk to someone, eventually."

"Yeah," Trip said, although he had his doubts. Malcolm had a way of not talking to people when he needed it the most, of shutting them out and keeping his hurt inside.

"Trip..."

He looked up. "Yeah?"

Jon hesitated. "In her report, T'Vai mentioned some extensive scarring on your back and that you were going to need laser treatment to remove it." Trip averted his eyes. "You didn't let Phlox take a look at it back in sickbay."

Yeah, because I knew he hadn't read the report yet.

"I forgot."

Jon refused to acknowledge his curt tone. "Trip."

Suddenly Trip felt angry. There it was again, that careful tone of voice (_How to Talk to a Traumatized Victim_), and the mixture of compassion and curiosity underlying the words. _Come on, talk to me. Tell me about it. I know it'll make you feel better._

"What d'you want me to say, Jon?"

Archer startled at his angry tone, then opened his mouth, but Trip cut him off.

"If you really want to know, yes, I was whipped, and no, I don't want to talk about it. It was nothin' unusual, y'see, that's just how they treat their slaves back on that planet. It was nothin' I couldn't handle."

"I never said that, Trip." Jon refused to react to his anger, and for some reason, his calm tone infuriated Trip even more. "You coped better then anyone could have expected you to. You survived and you even managed to escape. You can be proud of yourselves."

"Proud?" Trip laughed angrily, knowing he was being unfair to Jon, and at the same time furious with him for saying such a ridiculous thing. "Do you know why we ran away in the first place, Jon?"

"Tell me," the Captain said, still in that maddeningly calm tone of voice.

"It's not a very nice story, I'm afraid. The guy we belonged to decided he needed some money, and his ex-wife told him she knew someone who'd pay a nice sum for one of us. Malcolm overheard them talkin', and so we found out before it was too late. He was gonna sell us as prostitutes, Jon!" His voice cracked, and he angrily wiped a hand over his eyes. "It'll make a nice paragraph in the official report, won't it? Forrest's gonna love that one: two of his officers narrowly escape being sold as wh-"

"Trip."

He had not noticed that Jon had gotten up, and startled when he was suddenly pulled into a firm hug.

"Stop it. Don't do this to yourself. I'll understand if you hate those people for the rest of your life, but don't take it out on yourself."

Despite Trip's weak struggles, he wouldn't let go, and after a moment Trip gave up trying to free himself from Jon's embrace, embarrassed and at the same time relieved that he could finally say these things aloud instead of simply pushing them out of his mind.

"I... I keep thinkin', what if Malcolm hadn't overheard them talkin' in the kitchen... or what if..."

"But it didn't happen," Jon said quietly. "You managed to get away in time. And you survived. Both of you. Maybe you don't feel that way right now, but you've got a lot of reasons to be proud of yourselves." Jon led him over to his bunk, sitting down next to him without removing his arm from Trip's shoulder. "And as for the report, there is no reason to mention any of this. I'm beginning to understand what you went through, and I'll do everything I can so you won't have to testify before Starfleet Command."

Trip nodded quietly, accepting the Kleenex Jon had picked up from his nightstand. Damn, he was making a mess of it. He'd been so happy to be back, and now the first thing he did was shout at Jon and allow his demons to catch up with him when he'd been trying so hard to forget about them.

"I'm just so tired of it all."

Jon's arm tightened around his shoulders. "It's okay, Trip. We don't have to talk about all of this tonight. If you like, I can ask Phlox to come here and give you something to help you sleep."

Trip shook his head. "Nah, that's okay. I'll be fine."

"Whatever you say." Gently, Jon pulled back his arm, and started gathering up the rest of the things that lay scattered on Trip's bed. "Why don't you finish this tomorrow, and try and get a good night's sleep. You look like you need it."

Trip managed a faint grin. "That bad, huh?"

Jon smiled in response. "Worse." He stood up, placing Trip's things on the floor next to his bed. "Hit the sack, Commander. That's an order."

Trip nodded, but made no move to get up. "Jon?"

The Captain, who had been on his way to the door, turned around. "Yeah?"

"I'm... sorry. Didn't mean to shout at you."

"I know." Jon smiled. "Good to have you back, Trip."

Trip answered his smile. "G'night, Cap'n."

"Night, Trip."

The door closed behind Archer, and after a moment Trip got up, slowly making his way around the cardboard boxes over to the bathroom. Too weary to take a shower, he only washed his hands and face and brushed his teeth, then dug through one of the cardboard boxes until he found an extra blanket somewhere at the bottom. For some reason, he always felt rather cold at night.

After he'd crawled under the sheets, Trip lay still for a while, enjoying the feeling of lying in his very own bed. The familiar humming of the warp engine helped him relax, and he found his thoughts returning to what Jon had said. Maybe what was true for Malcolm was true for him as well. Maybe he just needed a little more time. Trip closed his eyes, and before he went to sleep, he decided to see Phlox first thing in the morning. Maybe there was something the doctor could do about those scars, after all.

Last chapter soon coming up!

Please let me know what you think!


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Another Planet's Hell

Author: Sita Z

Rating: PG 13

AN: Thanks to highonscifi (in a way, I do, too. No more reviews -(!), Gabi ( naain, ich bin doch ganz lieb und schreib keine bösen Sachen in die AN ;-) ), Tata (well, I tried to squeeze at least -some- of those things into this chapter -g-), Chriss Corkscrew (don't worry, he will), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (you're right, Trip sees his own issues as "lesser"... but he still needs to talk about them), Exploded Pen (join the club, the stack of yet-to-be-written term papers on my desk keeps growing as well ;-) ), stage manager (yes, actually I -do- have some ideas about my next story ;-)...), Luna (I like the term "feel good" chapter ;-)...hope this'll be one as well), Rinne (thank you!), Romanse (and he will get it (the meltdown) ), AquaSox (glad to know you're still reading, and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well), Kitt (and I'll miss getting all those reviews ;-)...), bunsdarien (I'm trying, but as I said... the term papers -(...), Spike26 (glad you liked it so much!), Cougar Bait (thank you, I really like the Vulcan greeting, and I just -hate- when they use it in commercials... oh well, here goes the Vulcan obsessive ;-) ), LoveChilde (well, there's going to be -some- h/c in this chapter, at least) and Maraschino (glad you liked it!) for reviewing!

And now, the last chapter... please rr!

Chapter 19

"Doctor, I-"

"Patience, Lieutenant. You need to learn patience."

Malcolm sighed, ignoring the doctor's advice as he shifted impatiently on the bio bed. As always, he was driving Phlox nuts and vice versa, but today the doctor's unwavering cheerfulness seemed especially hard to bear. Why couldn't the man hurry up a bit?

"What are you doing? You- said you needed to run only a few more scans-"

This actually drew a sigh from the doctor. "Lieutenant, I assure you I _am_ running those scans, and they are still going to take a few minutes. Why don't you-"

The sickbay doors opening interrupted him, and Malcolm never knew whether Phlox had been about to tell him to shut up, or go and stick his head in the fire eel's tank. Steps approached - two people, as far as he could tell - and a moment later he heard the Captain's voice.

"You're up early, Malcolm."

Malcolm grinned sheepishly in response. It was only 0615 ship's time, and he had been here since 0550, sitting on this very bio bed and waiting for the doctor's bloody tests to be over. In fact, he had hardly slept all night, feeling like he had as a very small child the day before Christmas. And all because a white piece of gauze was finally going to be removed from his eyes.

"So- are you, sir. Commander..."

He didn't have to ask who the second person was, having learned to recognize most people by the way they walked. And Trip, with that unique bounce in his step, was a particularly easy one.

"I am glad you are here, Captain, Commander," Phlox said from somewhere behind his back. "Maybe you will be able to keep the Lieutenant distracted so I can finish my examinations _in peace_."

Trip chuckled, and Malcolm suspected the Captain was hiding a grin as well. Well, he had to admit the doctor had good reason to be a little irritated with him. During the three days they had been back on Enterprise, Malcolm had pestered Phlox again and again as to when exactly the bandage was going to come off, and the possibility of removing it a little earlier than planned. He knew he was being a pain in the ass, but as he was still off-duty, there was little to keep him occupied except for thinking about his eyes. And he was starting to see again. Sometimes when he opened his eyes under the bandage, he would be able to see blurred shapes and colors through the gauze, and at these times it was particularly hard to keep himself from ripping off the detested blindfold altogether.

"Nervous, Lieutenant?"

Trip's friendly teasing came closer to the truth than Malcolm liked to admit. Yes, somewhere deep down he _was_ nervous, anxious even; what if the doctor took off the bandage and the blackness he had been staring at for the last one and a half months would not go away? His stomach clenched at the idea.

"Maybe- a little," he said quietly.

"Hey." Trip's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "Doc said everything's gonna be fine. There's no reason to worry."

"Indeed, Lieutenant." Phlox' voice drew closer, and a soft click told Malcolm that the doctor had just switched off his hand scanner. "Shall we try and remove the bandage?"

_For God's sake, just take it off!_ Malcolm gripped the edge of the bio bed harder.

"Please do."

He felt the doctor's hands on the back of his head, fumbling with the small clasp that held the bandage in place. Then the tightly wrapped fabric came loose, and Malcolm involuntarily scrunched his eyes shut as a bright flash of light hit him right in the face. It stung and burned, and at the same time it was the best thing he had ever felt. He could see. His surroundings were still somewhat blurry and indistinct, but he was able to see them, the bio beds, the monitors, the bat's cage on the counter, and the smiling faces of Trip and the Captain who were standing in front of his bio bed.

"And?" Trip wanted to know. Malcolm only nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. The light was still too bright for his eyes, making them water, but for once Malcolm didn't care if the Captain or anyone else thought he was crying. Hell, maybe he _was_.

Malcolm swallowed, managing a faint grin. "Good to see you again, Captain."

"That's the best thing I've heard in a long time, Mr. Reed." Archer turned to Phlox. "Doctor?"

The Denobulan beamed, all earlier disagreements forgotten. "As far as I can see, Captain, there is no reason why the Lieutenant's sight shouldn't fully return within the next two or three days. I still suggest he stays off duty until-

"Captain, I-"

"-until I know for sure that there will be no further complications," Phlox finished, shooting him a pointed look. "You are still recovering, Lieutenant."

Malcolm grimaced, but in truth he felt only slightly disappointed. Now that the bandage was off, there were worse things than a having a few days for himself; he could use the time to catch up on his reading, finally answer his mail, and maybe tinker a little with that EM field booster he had started working on ages ago. The idea brought another smile to his face, and to everyone's surprise he nodded.

"Very well, doctor."

The Captain smiled at him. "Ready for breakfast in the Captain's Mess, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm hesitated, then his stomach decided the matter by giving a distinct rumble at the mention of food. Both Trip and Archer laughed. "I'll take that as a yes," the Captain said.

Malcolm thought of pancakes with peanut butter and scrambled eggs with ham, and suddenly realized that he was very hungry indeed. All the more so at the prospect of actually _seeing_ the food on his plate.

"Thank you, sir. Breakfast sounds good."

"Want to come too, doc?" The Captain looked at Phlox. "I can ask Chef to set a fourth place."

"Oh, thank you, Captain, but I still have quite a lot of work to do," Phlox said cheerfully. "Commander, before you leave I'd like to take another look at your back."

Malcolm saw Trip's eyebrows draw together. He said nothing, however, easing out of the jumpsuit and pulling off his shirt so Phlox could have a look. Only then did Malcolm notice how thin Trip still was. The Commander's ribs were clearly visible, the skin pulling taut over his cheekbones, and he had dark smudges under his eyes.

"It seems like the laser treatment was quite effective," Phlox said. "After three or four sessions the scars should be hardly visible anymore."

Archer frowned. "You can't remove them completely?"

"Not all of them, I'm afraid. The infection delayed the natural healing process, and some of the scars are too deep to be completely eliminated by laser therapy. I could always try skin grafts, of course, but that would take a lot more time."

Trip shook his head, picking up his shirt again. "That won't be necessary, doc," he said. As he turned around, Malcolm saw the thin white lines on his back, and for a moment was painfully reminded of the raw, bleeding wounds he had tried to clean shortly after Trip had been whipped.

Trip never saw the glance exchanged between the Captain and the doctor, slipping back into his uniform the second Phlox had finished his examination. Then he turned around, smiling a little too brightly.

"Man, I'm starvin'." He looked at Malcolm. "Ya with us, Mal?"

Malcolm saw Archer open his mouth, and close it again when Phlox shook his head. _Give it time, Captain_, the doctor seemed to be saying. _All he needs is a little more time._

Malcolm pretended not to have noticed the silent exchange - he knew similar looks were traded behind his back every time he stumbled on his words, felt it in the way people acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary. _Give him time, _those looks said. _Just give him time._

He slid off the bio bed, and realized for the first time how wonderful it was to see your feet touch the ground, to move without being afraid of bumping into furniture.

"Just- promise me there'll be no- _kelho_ fruit this time," he said to Trip. They shared a look and a grin remembering the godawful food rations they had shared in the flitter, and neither of them bothered to explain to Phlox or the Captain.

"That's a deal."

"Well," Archer turned to Phlox, "looks like my officers need a feed. You sure you don't want to come, doc?"

"Quite sure." Phlox smiled. "Lieutenant, I'd like you to come and see me for another check-up this afternoon."

"Doctor, I'm-"

"1400. Be there, Lieutenant."

Malcolm sighed, but mostly because everyone expected him to do so. At the moment, even the prospect of another fifteen minutes spent in sickbay could hardly put a damper on his good mood. On the way to the messhall, he kept noticing things he had never really _seen_ before - a small speck on the wall, the color of the deck plating, tiny things like that - and found himself grinning for no reason at all. It was going to be good day.

XXX

"It's no excuse."

"Trip..."

"You heard me, Mal. Bein' tired is no excuse for actin' that way. I'm a senior officer. I'm supposed to be settin' an example, not lose it over somethin' minor like a few blown-up circuits."

Malcolm seemed to have no answer to give, and Trip turned away, staring out at the stars. Reflected by the window he could see the mess hall, the chairs and tables deserted except for the one right behind him. And judging from Malcolm's expression, the Lieutenant was not planning on leaving any time soon.

"Trip. You talked to Ensign Lewington. You apologized."

"Still. I had no right to shout at her like that."

Malcolm sighed, and Trip knew what he was going to say. _I'm sure she understands. No one's blaming you. It's okay._

But Trip knew that it wasn't okay. Alright, he _had_ slept less than four hours the night before, and Lewington _had_ done a poor job, but that was no reason to lose control in such a way. The young ensign had burst into tears and fled the room, leaving behind a stunned engineering crew and a Chief Engineer who wished nothing more than for a hole to open up in the deck and swallow him. The deck plating, however, refused to transform its shape, and Trip set himself to the task of repairing the damaged circuits, acting as if he hadn't noticed when Hess left the room to go after Clara Lewington. When they came back ten minutes later, Hess never said a word to him, saw Clara back to her station and then returned to her own duties as if nothing had happened. In a way, her silence made it even worse. Only a few months ago, Hess would have politely asked to talk to him in private, and then told him not-so-politely what she thought of his behavior. Trip almost wished for someone to tell him that he had been a bastard, that he had no right to shout at his subordinates just because he was having a bad day (one of many, by the way.) But they didn't, and Clara had even smiled at him when he had apologized to her after the end of her shift.

"It's quite alright, sir," she had said. "I realize that this isn't easy for you."

Not easy for him. That was what the rest of his crew seemed to be thinking as well. _It's not easy for him. Poor guy, I'm sure he's not getting much sleep at night. It must be bad for him, after all he's been through..._

He saw it in their eyes, and sometimes overheard snatches of conversations that died quickly when he walked by. They felt sorry for him.

Trip became aware of Malcolm's eyes on him, and suddenly noticed the tired look on the Lieutenant's face. Now that he had returned to full-time duties, Malcolm had to split his days between the Armory and his speech therapy sessions with Hoshi, and there wasn't much time left for anything else.

And still he's here, Trip thought. Trying to talk to me, even though he can hardly keep his eyes open.

"Malcolm." Trip turned around. "Why don't you go to bed. Seems like I'm not very good company at the moment, and you do look tired."

"I wasn't very good company either back at the camp." Malcolm glanced down at the cup between his hands, not seeing the startled look on Trip's face.

"What do you mean, Mal?"

The Lieutenant raised his eyes. "I just realized that I never really thanked you. You got me out of there, put up with me when I... when I couldn't even feed myself, and risked your life to steal the flitter after Chi'an had threatened to kill me."

Trip stared at him.

"Come on, Trip." Malcolm sounded bitterly amused. "It was the best way to keep you under her control, with me being helpless and unable to defend myself. She'd have been a fool not to take advantage of that."

Trip was stunned. He had never thought that Malcolm would know about Chi'an's threat, or blame himself for becoming "blackmail material".

"Mal..."

"And you had to kill that woman to get me out of there. Trip, I... I'm so sorry."

Trip sat down on the chair opposite to Malcolm, his heart pounding. He had never talked to anyone about the woman, and had been sure that no one knew. But Malcolm couldn't have found out, could he? Neither Sepek nor Chi'an had ever bothered to talk to Tucker's blind friend, and there was no reason why they should have told him about the Sar'veen woman.

"How... how d'you know about her?"

Malcolm lowered his eyes. "You were talking in your sleep," he said quietly. "Back in the flitter. I tried to wake you up, but..."

He shrugged, and for a moment Trip thought of a blind Malcolm, trying to wake a man who was tossing and turning in his sleep, probably even shying away from his touch.

"That's okay." He hesitated. "I don't know why I never told anyone about her. Maybe... maybe because I was tryin' to forget about her myself. I shot her in the back, you know? She was tryin' to run away an' I shot her in the back." Trip stared down at his hands, afraid he might see shock and barely hidden disgust on Malcolm's face when he looked up. "She never had a chance."

"Trip."

At that he did look up, and saw that Malcolm's mouth had hardened to a thin line.

"That woman... it was her who put the stuff into my eyes that made me go blind. They had me strapped to a table, and she- picked the test samples that she wanted them to apply to my skin. I- I screamed, and begged her to stop... it hurt so much..."

Trip saw tears in the Lieutenant's eyes, and reached over the table to put a hand on Malcolm's arm. "Mal, it's-"

"Then she put the substance into my eyes, and it burned like fire... I realized I was blind, and I panicked. I- I couldn't stop screaming, and she told one of the techs to- to put a piece of adhesive tape over my mouth. I bit his hand, and he punched me so hard I lost consciousness only a short time later. When I woke up again, I was back in my cell. The tape was still over my mouth, and I managed to pull it off, but I still couldn't make a sound... it felt as- as if I had been buried alive. I couldn't see, could hardly move and had no way of calling for help, and there was so much pain..."

He angrily wiped away the tears that were running down his cheeks. "I'm glad you killed her, Trip. I know I'm not supposed to be feeling that way, but I am. Every time I wake up from one of those nightmares, I remind myself that- they are dead, and it makes me feel a little better. I don't know why, but it does."

Trip's throat had gone dry, and he swallowed hard before he spoke.

"No one could possibly blame you, Mal. And I'm sure that in some way she deserved to die. Or maybe she didn't, I have no idea. It's not for me to decide. It's just that... it's hard to live with the thought of... of bein' a murderer."

There, he'd said it. The word he had been trying so hard to avoid.

"You're not a murderer, Trip," Malcolm said.

"I shot her in the back, didn't I? I shot an unarmed person in the back while she was tryin' to flee. I guess that makes me a murderer alright."

"No," Malcolm repeated calmly. "You weren't planning to kill her, were you?"

"No, but..."

"She would have called the police if she had gotten away, and you had to prevent that. You did the only thing you could think of at the moment. You didn't wish for her to die."

"That's what I keep tellin' myself." Trip turned his head, looking at the stars streaming past outside. "But maybe a small part of me wanted to kill her. She... she was Sar'veen, and..."

"I know what you mean." Malcolm paused. "In the rational part of my mind, I know that I'm damn lucky. We survived, both of us. I regained my sight and Hoshi says that my speech is improving with every session. But I still... deep down, I still hate them."

Trip nodded. He had tried to ignore these emotions, but they were still there, haunting him even in his sleep. Anger, humiliation, the nagging question: Why. Why he and Malcolm, why all the other people they had met on the slave ship and back on K'tera. Emotions that had eventually turned into hate.

"Me too," he said quietly. "Guess it's somethin' we'll have to live with."

Malcolm gave no answer. They sat in silence for a while, unaware that several hundred light years away a man named Selin rose from his seat in the ancient Hall of Thought to officially declare that Vulcan was preparing for war. A "war of freedom", as the Andorian and Tellarite propaganda called it when their governments decided to join forces with Vulcan.

The stars continued to flow past outside, and Trip leaned back, smiling when he realized how much he had grown to love this sight. It allowed him to lose himself. To forget. And sometimes, he thought, that wasn't such a bad thing, after all.

The End

Thanks to everybody who reviewed this story, and especially to those of you who reviewed all chapters, or almost all of them! Your feedback and encouragement means a lot to me! Thank you!

Sita Z

Upcoming soon: "The Miles That Lay Ahead" by Gabi, a sequel to "What Lies Within Us"! Wonderful story, don't miss it!


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